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• 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS 


By  JxVMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE. 


BEING 


Selections  from  ''Short  Studies 
on  Great  Subjects.'''' 


NEW  YORK : 
JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 

188G. 


136460 


H '-?  ^ 


CONTENTS. 


Erasmus  luid  Luther,    -            -                       .  o 

Spinoza,        .            -            -           .             -  99 

The  Dissolution  of  the  Monasteries,    -            -  153 

England's  Forgotten  Worthier,     -            -  187 

Homer,    --»---  237 

Society  in  Italy  in  the  Lust  Days  of  the  Roman 

Republic,           -            -            -            -  273 

Lucian,   ------  299 

Divus  Caesar,            -           -            -           -  833 


TIMES  OF 

ERASMUS   AND   LUTHER. 

THREE  LECTURES. 

DELIVERED  AT   NEWCASTLE,    1SG7. 


I. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen, — I  do  not  know 
whether  I  have  made  a  very  wise  selection  in 
the  subject  which  I  have  chosen  for  these  Lec- 
tures. There  was  a  time — a  time  which, 
measured  by  the  years  of  our  national  life,  was 
not  so  very  long  ago — when  the  serious  thoughts 
of  mankind  were  occupied  exclusively  by  relig- 
ion and  politics.  The  small  knowledge  which 
they  possessed  of  other  things  was  tinctured  by 
their  speculative  opinions  on  the  relations  of 
heaven  and  earth ;  and,  down  to  the  sixteenth 
century,  art,  science,  scarcely  even  literature, 
existed  in  this  country,  except  as,  in  some  way 
or  other,  subordinate  to  theology.  Philoso- 
phers— such  philosophers  as  these  were — ob- 
tained and  half  deserved  the  reputation  of 
quacks  and  conjurers.  Astronomy  was  con- 
fused with  astrology.  The  physician's  medi- 
cines were  supposed  to  be  powerless,  unless  the 
priests  said  prayers  over  them.  The  great 
lawyers,  the  ambassadors,  the  chief  ministers 
of  state,  were  generally  bishops ;  even  the  fight- 
ing business  was  not  entirely  secular.  Half-a- 
dozen  Scotch  prelates  were  killed  at  Flodden  ; 


6  IIISTOK/CAL  ESSAYS. 

and,  laic  in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  no 
fitter  person  could  be  found  than  Rowland  Lee, 
Lishop  of  Coventry,  to  take  command  of  the 
Welsh  Marches,  and  harry  the  freebooters  of 
Llangollen. 

Every  single  department  of  intellectual  or 
practical  life  was  penetrated  with  the  beliefs, 
or  was  interwoven  with  the  interests,  of  the 
clergy  ;  and  thus  it  was  that,  when  differences 
of  religious  opinion  arose,  they  split  society  to 
its  foundations.  The  lines  of  cleavage  pene- 
trated everywhere,  and  there  were  no  subjects 
whatever  in  which  those  who  disagreed  in 
theology  possessed  any  common  concern. 
When  men  quarrelled,  they  quarrelled  alto- 
gether. The  disturbers  of  settled  beliefs  were 
regarded  as  public  enemies  who  had  placed 
themselves  beyond  the  pale  of  humanity,  and 
were  considered  fit  only  to  be  destroyed  like 
wild  beasts,  or  trampled  out  like  the  seed  of  a 
contagion. 

Three  centuries  have  passed  over  our  heads 
since  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  and  the 
world  is  so  changed  that  we  can  hardly  recog- 
nize it  as  the  same. 

'J'he  secrets  of  nature  have  been  opened  out 
to  us  on  a  thousand  lines  ;  and  men  of  science 
of  all  creeds  can  pursue  side  by  side  their 
common  investigations.  Catholics,  Anglicans, 
Presbyterians,  Lutherans,  Calvinists,  contend 
with  each  other  in  honorable  rivalry  in  arts, 
and  literature,  and  commerce,  and  industry. 
They  read  the  same  books.  They  study  at  the 
same  academies.  They  have  seats  in  the  same 
senates.  Tliey  preside  together  on  the  judicial 
bench,  and  carry  on,  without  jar  or  difference, 
the  ordinary  business  of  the  countr}-. 

Those  who  share  the  same  pursuits  are  drawn 
in  spite  of  themselves  into  sympathy  and  good- 
will. When  they  are  in  harmony  in  so  large  a 
part  of  their  occupations,  the  points  of  remain- 
ing difference  lose  their  venom.  Those  who 
thought  they  haled  each  other,  unconsciously 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  -j 

find  themselves  friends  ;  and  as  far  as  it  affects 
the  world  at  large,  the  acrimony  of  controversy 
has  almost  disappeared. 

Jma,p;inc,  if  you  can,  a  person  being  now  put 
to  death  for  a  speculative  theological  opinion. 
You  feel  at  once,  that  in  the  most  bigoted 
country  in  the  world  such  a  thing  has  become 
impossible  ;  and  the  impossibility  is  the  meas- 
ure of  the  alteration  which  we  have  all  under- 
gone. The  Formulas  remain  as  they  were  on 
either  side — the  very  same  formulas  which  were 
once  supposed  to  require  these  detestable  mur- 
ders. But  we  have  learnt  to  know  each  other 
better.  The  cords  which  bind  together  the 
brotherhood  of  mankind  are  woven  of  a  thou- 
sand strands.  We  do  not  any  more  fly  apart  or 
become  enemies,  because,  here  and  there,  in 
one  strand  out  of  so  many,  there  are  still  un- 
sound places. 

If  I  were  asked  for  a  distinct  proof  that 
Europe  was  improving  and  not  retrograding,  I 
should  find  it  in  this  phenomenon.  It  has  not 
been  brought  about  by  controversy.  Men  are 
fighting  still  over  the  same  questions  which 
they  began  to  fight  about  at  the  Reformation. 
Protestant  divines  have  not  driven  Catholics 
out  of  the  field,  nor  Catholics,  Protestants. 
Each  polemic  writes  for  his  own  partisans,  and 
makes  no  impression  on  his  adversary. 

Controversy  has  kept  alive  a  certain  quantity 
of  bitterness  ;  and  that,  I  suspect,  is  all  that  it 
would  accomplish  if  it  continued  till  the  day  of 
judgment.  I  sometimes,  in  impatient  moments, 
wish  the  laity  in  Europe  would  treat  their  con- 
troversial divines  as  two  gentlemen  once  treated 
their  seconds,  when  they  found  themselves 
forced  into  a  duel  without  knowing  what  they 
were  quarrelling  about. 

As  the  principals  were  being  led  up  to   their 

places,  one  of  them  whispered  to  the  other,  '  If 

you  will  shoot  your  second,  I  will  shoot  mine.' 

The    reconciliation   of  parties,  if   I   may  use 

such  a  word,  is   no  tinkcred-up  truce,  or  con- 


3  jnSTORIC.lL  JCSSAVS. 

venient  Interim.  It  is  the  healthy,  silent 
spontaneous  growth  of  a  nobler  order  of  con- 
viction, which  has  conquered  our  prejudices 
even  before  we  knew  that  they  were  assailed. 
This  better  spirit  especially  is  represented  in 
institutions  like  the  present,  which  acknowledge 
no  differences  of  creed — which  are  constructed 
on  the  broadest  principles  of  toleration — and 
which,  therefore,  as  a  rule,  are  wisely  protected 
from  the  intrusion  of  discordant  subjects. 

They  exist,  as  I  understand,  to  draw  men 
together,  not  to  divide  them — to  enable  us  to 
share  together  in  those  topics  of  universal  in- 
terest and  instruction  which  all  can  take  pleas- 
ure in,  and  which  give  offence  to  none. 

If  you  ask  me,  then,  why  I  am  myself  depait- 
ing  from  a  practice  which  I  admit  to  be  so  ex- 
cellent, I  fear  that  I  shall  give  you  rather  a 
lame  answer.  I  might  say  that  I  know  more 
about  the  history  of  the  sixteenth  century  than 
I  know  about  anything  else.  I  have  spent  the 
best  years  of  my  life  in  reading  and  writing 
about  it ;  and  if  I  have  anything  to  tell  you 
worth  your  hearing,  it  is  probably  on  that  sub- 
ject. 

Or,  again,  I  might  say — which  is  indeed  most 
true — that  to  the  Reformation  we  can  trace, 
indirectly,  the  best  of  those  very  influences 
which  I  have  been  describing.  The  Reformation 
broke  the  theological  shackles  in  which  men's 
minds  were  fettered.  It  set  them  thinking, 
and  so  gave  birth  to  science.  The  reformers 
also,  without  knowing  what  they  were  about, 
taught  the  lesson  of  religious  toleration.  They 
attempted  to  supersede  one  set  of  dogmas  by 
another.  They  succeeded  with  half  the  world 
— they  failed  with  the  other  half.  In  a  little 
while  it  became  apparent  that  good  men — 
without  ceasing  to  be  good — could  think  differ- 
ently about  theology,  and  that  goodness,  there- 
fore, depended  on  something  else  than  the 
holding  orthodox  opinions. 

It  is  not,  however,  for  either  of  these  reasons 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  9 

that  I  am  going  to  talk  to  you  about  Martin 
Luther  :  nor  is  toleration  of  differences  of  opin- 
ion, however  excellent  it  be,  the  point  on  which 
I  shall  dwell  in  these  Lectures. 

Were  the  Reformation  a  question  merely  of 
opinion,  I  for  one  should  not  have  meddled 
with  it,  either  here  or  anywhere.  I  hold  that, 
on  the  obscure  jnysteries  of  faith,  every  one 
should  be  allowed  to  believe  according  to  his 
conscience,  and  that  arguments  on  such  mat- 
ters are  either  impertinent  or  useless. 

But  the  Reformation,  gentlemen,  beyond  the 
region  of  opinions,  was  a  historical  fact — an 
objective  something  which  may  be  studied  like 
any  of  the  facts  of  nature.  The  Reformers 
were  men  of  note  and  distinction,  who  played  a 
great  part  for  good  or  evil  on  the  stage  of  the 
world.  If  we  except  the  Apostles,  no  body  of 
human  beings  ever  printed  so  deep  a  mark  in- 
to the  organization  of  society ;  and  if  there  be 
any  value  or  meaning  in  history  at  all,  the  lives, 
the  actions,  the  characters  of  such  men  as 
these  can  be  matters  of  indifference  to  none 
of  us. 

We  have  not  to  do  with  a  story  which  is 
buried  in  obscure  antiquity.  The  facts  admit 
of  being  learnt.  The  truth,  whatever  it  was, 
concerns  us  all  equally.  If  the  divisions  cre- 
ated by  that  great  convulsion  are  ever  to  be  ob- 
literated, it  will  be  when  we  have  learnt,  each 
of  us,  to  see  the  thing  as  it  really  was,  and  not 
rather  some  mythical  or  imaginative  version  of 
the  thing — such  as  from  our  own  point  of  view 
we  like  to  think  it  was.  Fiction  in  such  mat- 
ters may  be  convenient  for  our  immediate 
theories,  but  it  is  certain  to  avenge  itself  in 
the  end.-  We  may  make  our  own  opinions,  but 
facts  were  made  for  us ;  and  if  we  evade  or 
deny  them,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  us. 

Unfortunately,  the  mythical  version  at  present 
very  largely  preponderates.  Open  a  Protestant 
history  of  the  Reformation,  and  you  will  find  a 
picture  of   the    world   given   over   to   a   lying 


lO  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

tyranny — the  Christian  population  of  Europe 
enslaved  by  a  corrupt  and  degraded  priesthood, 
and  the  Reformers,  ^vith  the  Bible  in  their 
Jiands,  coming  to  the  rescue  like  angels  of  light. 
All  is  black,  on  one  side — all  is  fair  and  beauti- 
ful on  the  other. 

Turn  to  a  Catholic  history  of  the  same  events 
and  the  same  men,  and  we  have  before  us  the 
Church  of  the  Saints  fulfilling  quietly  its 
blessed  mission  in  the  saving  of  human  souls. 
Satan  a  second  time  enters  into  Paradise,  and 
a  second  time  with  fatal  success  tempts  miser- 
able man  to  his  ruin.  He  disbelieves  his  ap- 
pointed teachers,  he  aspires  after  forbidden 
knowledge,  and  at  once  anarchy  breaks  loose. 
The  seamless  robe  of  the  Saviour  is  rent  in 
pieces,  and  the  earth  becomes  the  habitation 
of  fiends. 

Each  side  tells  the  story  as  it  prefers  to  have 
it ;  facts,  characters,  circumstances,  are  melted 
in  the  theological  crucible,  and  cast  in  moulds 
diametrically  opposite.  Nothing  remains  the 
same  except  the  names  and  dates.  Each  side 
chooses  its  own  witnesses.  Evervthing  is 
credible  which  makes  for  what  it  calls  the  truth. 
Everything  is  made  false  which  will  not  fit  in- 
to its  place.  *  Blasphemous  fables  '  is  the 
usual  expression  in  Protestant  controversial 
books  for  the  accounts  given  by  Catholics. 
'  Protestant  tradition,'  says  an  eminent  modern 
Catholic,  '  is  based  on  lying — bold,  wholesale, 
unscrupulous  lying.' 

Now,  depend  upon  it,  there  is  some  human 
account  of  the  matter  different  from  both  these 
if  we  could  only  get  at  it,  and  it  will  be  an  ex- 
cellent thing  for  the  world  when  that  human 
account  can  be  made  out.  I  am  not  so  pre- 
sumptuous as  to  suppose  that  I  can  give  it  to 
you;  still  less  can  you  expect  me  to  try  to  do 
so  within  the  compass  of  two  or  three  lectures. 
If  I  cannot  do  everything,  however,  I  believe 
I  can  do  a  little  ;  at  any  rate  I  can  give  you  a 
sketch,  such  as  you  may  place  moderate  con' 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  ii 

fidencc  in,  of  the  state  of  the  Church  as  it  was 
before  the  Rcforinatioii  began.  1  will  not  ex- 
pose myself  more  than  1  can  help  to  the  cen- 
sure of  the  divine  who  was  so  hard  on  Protest- 
ant tradition.  Most  of  what  I  shall  have  to  say 
to  you  this  evening  will  be  taken  from  the  ad- 
missions of  Catholics  themselves,  or  from  offi- 
cial records  earlier  than  the  outbreak  of  the 
controversy,  when  there  was  no  temptation  to 
pervert  the  truth. 

Here,  obviously,  is  the  first  point  on  which 
we  required  accurate  information.  If  all  was 
going  on  well,  the  Reformers  really  and  truly 
told  innumerable  lies,  and  deserve  all  the  re- 
probation which  we  can  give  them.  If  all  was 
not  going  on  well — if,  so  far  from  being  well, 
the  Church  was  so  corrupt  that  luirope  could 
bear  with  it  no  longer — then  clearly  a  Reform: 
ation  was  necessary  of  some  kind ;  and  we 
have  taken  one  step  towards  a  fair  estimate  of 
the  persons  concerned  in  it. 

A  fair  estimate — that,  and  only  that,  is  what 
we  want.  I  need  hardly  observe  to  you,  that 
opinion  in  England  has  been  undergoing  lately 
a  very  considerable  alteration  about  these  per- 
sons. 

Two  generations  ago,  the  leading  Reformers 
were  looked  upon  as  little  less  than  saints  ; 
now  a  party  has  risen  up  who  intend,  as  they 
frankly  tell  us,  to  un-Protestantize  the  Church 
of  England,  who  detest  Protestantism  as  a 
kind  of  infidelity,  who  desire  simply  to  reverse 
everything  which  the  Reformers  did. 

One  of  these  gentlemen,  a  clergyman  writ- 
ing lately  of  Luther,  called  him  a  heretic,  a 
heretic  fit  only  to  be  ranked  with — whom,  do 
you  think  ?— foe  Smith,  the  Mormon  Prophet, 
Joe  Smith  and  Luther— that  is  the  combination 
with  which  we  are  now  presented. 

The  book  in  which  this  remarkable  state- 
ment appeared  was  presented  by  two  bishops 
to  the  tipper  House  of  Convocation.  It  was 
received   with   gracious  acknowledgments  by 


12  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  was  placed 
solemnly  in  the  library  of  reference,  for  that 
learned  body  to  consult. 

So,  too,  a  professor  at  Oxford,  the  other  day, 
spoke  of  Luther  as  a  Philistine — a  Philistine 
meaning  an  oppressor  of  the  chosen  people  ; 
the  enemy  of  men  of  culture  and  intelligence, 
such  as  the  professor  himself. 

One  notices  these  things,  not  as  of  much  im^ 
portance  in  themselves,  but  as  showing  which 
way  the  stream  is  running ;  and,  curiously 
enough,  in  quite  another  direction  we  may  see 
the  same  phenomenon.  Our  liberal  philos- 
ophers, men  of  high  literary  power  and  reputa- 
tion, looking  into  the  history  of  Luther,  and 
Calvin,  and  John  Knox,  and  the  rest,  lind 
them  falling  far  short  of  the  philosophic  ideal 
— wanting  sadly  in  many  qualities  which  the 
liberal  mind  cannot  dispense  with.  They  are 
discovered  to  be  intolerant,  dogmatic,  narrow- 
minded,  inclined  to  persecute  Catholics  as 
Catholics  had  persecuted  them ;  to  be,  in  fact, 
little  if  at  all  better  than  the  popes  and  cardi- 
nals whom  they  were  fighting  against. 

Lord  I\Licaulay  can  hardly  find  epithets 
strong  enough  to  express  his  contempt  for 
Archbishop  Cranmer.  Mr,  Buckle  places 
Cranmer  by  the  side  of  Bonner,  and  hesitates 
which  of  the  two  characters  is  the  more  detes- 
table. 

An  unfavorable  estimate  of  the  Reformers, 
whether  just  or  unjust,  is  unquestionably  gain- 
ing ground  among  our  advanced  thinkers.  A 
greater  man  than  either  ALacaulay  or  Buckle 
— the  German  poet,  Goethe — says  of  Luther, 
that  he  threw  back  the  intellectual  progress  of 
mankind  for  centuries,  by  calling  in  the  pas- 
sions of  the  multitude  to  decide  on  subjects 
which  ought  to  have  been  left  to  the  learned, 
(ioethe,  in  saying  this,  was  alluding  especially 
to  Erasmus.  Goethe  thought  that  Erasmus, 
and  men  like  lOrasmus,  had  struck  upon  the 
right  track  ;  and  if  they  could  have   retained 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  13 

the  direction  of  tiie  mind  of  Europe,  there 
would  have  been  more  trulh,and  less  falsehood, 
among  us  at  this  present  time.  The  party 
hatreds,  the  theological  rivalries,  the  persecu- 
tions, the  civil  wars,  the  religious  animosities 
which  have  so  long  distracted  us,  would  have 
been  all  avoided,  and  the  mind  of  mankind 
would  have  expanded  gradually  and  equally 
with  the  growth  of  knowledge. 

Such  an  opinion,  coming  from  so  great  a 
man,  is  not  to  be  lightly  passed  over.  It  will 
be  my  endeavor  to  show  you  what  kind  of  man 
Erasmus  was,  what  he  was  aiming  at,  what  he 
was  doing,  and  how  Luther  spoilt  his  work — if 
spoiling  is  the  word  which  we  are  to  use  for  it. 

One  caution,  however,  I  must  in  fairness 
give  you  before  we  proceed  further.  It  lies 
upon  the  face  of  the  story,  that  the  Reformers 
imperfectly  understood  toleration  ;  but  you 
must  keep  before  you  the  spirit  and  temper  of 
the  men  with  whom  they  had  to  deal.  For 
themselves,  when  the  movement  began,  they 
aimed  at  nothing  but  liberty  to  think  and  speak 
their  own  way.  They  never  dreamt  of  inter- 
fering with  others,  although  they  were  quite 
aware  that  others,  when  they  could,  were  likely 
to  interfere  with  them.  Lord  Macaulay  might 
have  remembered  that  Cranmer  was  working 
all  his  life  with  the  prospect  of  being  burnt 
alive  as  his  reward — and,  as  we  all  know,  he 
actually  was  burnt  alive. 

When  the  Protestant  teaching  began  first  to 
spread  in  the  Netherlands — before  one  single 
Catholic  had  been  ill-treated  there,  before  a 
symptom  of  a  mutinous  disposition  had  shown 
itself  among  the  people,  an  edict  was  issued  by 
the  authorities  for  the  suppression  of  the  new 
opinions. 

The  terms  of  this  edict  I  will  briefly  describe 
to  you. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  United  Provinces 
were  informed  that  they  were  to  hold  and  be- 
lieve the  doctrines  of  the  Holy  Roman  Catho- 


14  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

lie  Church.  *  Men  and  women,'  says  the  edict, 
'  who  disobey  this  command  shall  be  punished 
as  distnrbers  of  public  order.  Women  who 
have  fallen  into  heresy  shall  be  buried  alive. 
Men,  if  they  recant,  shall  lose  their  heads.  If 
they  continue  obstinate,  they  shall  be  burnt  at 
the  stake. 

'  If  man  or  woman  be  suspected  of  heresy, 
no  one  shall  shelter  or  protect  him  or  her;  and 
no  stranger  shall  be  admitted  to  lodge  in  any 
inn  or  dwelling-house  unless  he  bring  with  him 
a  testimonial  of  orthodoxy  from  the  priest  of 
his  parish. 

'The  Inquisition  shall  inquire  into  the  pri- 
vate opinions  of  every  person,  of  whatever 
degree  ;  and  all  officers  of  all  kinds  shall  assist 
the  Inquisition  at  their  peril.  Those  who 
know  where  heretics  are  concealed,  shall 
denounce  them,  or  they  shall  suffer  as  heretics 
themselves.  Heretics  (observe  the  malignity 
of  this  paragraph) — heretics  who  will  give  up 
other  heretics  to  justice,  shall  themselves  be 
pardoned  if  they  will  promise  to  conform  for 
the  future.' 

Under  this  edict,  in  the  Netherlands  alone, 
more  than  fifty  thousand  human  beings,  first 
and  last,  were  deliberatelv  murdered.  And, 
gentlemen,  I  must  say  that  proceedings  of  this 
kind  explain  and  go  far  to  excuse  the  subsequ- 
ent intolerance  of  Protestants. 

Intolerance,  Mr  Gibbon  tells  us,  is  a  greater 
crime  in  a  Protestant  than  a  Catholic.  Criminal 
intolerance,  as  I  understand  it,  is  the  intoler- 
ance of  such  an  edict  as  that  which  I  have  read 
to  you — the  unprovoked  intolerance  of  differ- 
ence of  opinion.  I  conceive  that  the  most  en- 
lightened philosopher  might  have  grown  hard 
and  narrow-minded  if  he  had  suffered  under 
the  administration  of  the  Duke  of  Alva. 

Dismissing  these  consideration,  I  will  now 
go  on  with  my  subject. 

Never  in  all  their  history,  in  ancient  times 
or  modern,  never  that  we  know  of,  have  man- 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTJIEK. 


^5 


kind  thrown  out  of  themselves  anything  so 
grand,  so  useful,  so  beautiful,  as  the  Catholic 
Church  once  was.  In,  these  time  of  ours, 
well-regulated  selfishness  is  the  recognized 
rule  of  action — every  one  of  us  is  expected  to 
look  out  first  for  himself,  and  take  care  of  his 
own  interests.  At  the  time  I  speak  of,  the 
Church  ruled  the  State  with  the  authority  of  a 
conscience  ;  and  self-interest,  as  a  motive  of 
action,  was  only  named  to  be  abhorred.  The 
bishops  and  clergy  were  regarded  freely  and 
simply  as  the  immediate  ministers  of  the  Al- 
mighty ;  and  they  seem  to  me  to  have  really 
deserved  that  high  estimate  of  their  character. 
It  was  not  for  the  doctrines  which  they  taught 
only,  or  chiefly,  that  they  were  held  in  honor. 
Brave  men  do  not  fall  down  before  their  fellow- 
mortals  for  the  words  which  they  speak,  or 
for  the  rites  which  they  perform.  Wisdom, 
justice,  self-denial,  nobleness,  puril}-,  high- 
mindedness, — these  are  the  qualities  before 
which  the  free-born  races  of  Europe  have  beeh 
contented  to  bow  ;  and  in  no  order  of  men 
were  such  qualities  to  be  found  as  they  were 
found  six  hundred  years  ago  in  the  clergy  of 
the  Catholic  Church.  They  called  themselves 
the  successors  of  the  Apostles.  They  claimed 
in  their  Master's  name  universal  spiritual  au- 
thority, but  they  made  good  their  pretensions 
by  the  holiness  of  their  own  lives.  They  were 
allowed  to  rule  because  they  deserved  to  rule, 
and  in  the  fulness  of  revenge  kings  and  nobles 
bent  before  a  power  which  was  nearer  to  God 
than  their  own.  Over  prince  and  subject, 
chieftain  and  serf,  a  body  of  unarmed  defence- 
less men  reigned  supreme  by  the  magic  of 
sanctity.  They  tamed  the  fiery  northern  war- 
riors who  had  broken  in  pieces  the  Roman 
Empire.  They  taught  them  —  they  brought 
them  really  and  truly  to  believe — that  they 
had  immortal  souls,  and  that  they  would  one 
day  stand  at  the  awful  judgment  bar  and  give 
account  for  their  lives  there.     With  the  brave. 


I (3  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

the  honest,  and  the  good — with  those  whc  had 
not  oppressed  the  poor  nor  removed  their 
neighbor's  landmark  —  with  those  who  had 
been  just  in  all  their  dealings — with  those  who 
had  fought  against  evil,  and  had  tried  valiantly 
to  do  their  Master's  will, — at  that  great  day,  it 
would  be  well.  For  cowards,  for  profligates, 
for  those  who  lived  for  luxury  and  pleasure 
and  self-indulgence,  there  was  the  blackness  of 
eternal  death. 

An  awful  conviction  of  this  tremendous  kind 
the  clergy  had  effectually  instilled  into  the 
mind  of  Europe.  It  was  not  a  perhaps  ;  it 
was  a  certainty.  It  was  not  a  form  of  words 
repeated  once  a  week  at  church ;  it  was  an 
assurance  entertained  on  all  days  and  in  all 
places,  without  any  particle  of  doubt.  And 
the  effect  of  such  a  belief  on  life  and  con- 
science was  simply  immeasurable. 

I  do  not  pretend  that  the  clergy  were  per- 
fect. They  were  very  far  from  perfect  at  the 
best  of  times,  and  the  European  nations  were 
never  completely  submissive  to  them.  It 
would  not  have  been  well  if  they  had  been. 
The  business  of  human  creatures  in  this  planet 
is  not  summed  up  in  the  most  excellent  of 
priestly  catechisms.  The  world  and  its  con- 
cerns continued  to  interest  men,  though  priests 
insisted  on  their  nothingness.  They  could  not 
prevent  kings  from  quarrelling  with  each  other. 
They  could  not  hinder  disputed  successions, 
and  civil  feuds,  and  wars,  and  political  con- 
spiracies. What  they  did  do  was  to  shelter 
the  weak  from  the  strong. 

In  the  eves  of  the  clergv,  the  serf  and  his 
lord  stood  on  the  common  level  of  sinful  hu- 
manity. Into  their  ranks  high  birth  was  no 
passport.  They  were  themselves  for  the  most 
part  children  of  the  people  ;  and  the  son  of 
the  artisan  or  peasant  rose  to  the  mitre  and 
the  triple  crown,  just  as  now-a-davs  the  rail- 
spliiter  and  the  tailor  become  Presidents  of  the 
Kepublic  of  the  West. 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  17 

The  Church  was  essentially  democratic, 
while  at  the  same  time  it  had  the  monopoly  of 
learning  ;  and  all  the  secular  power  fell  to  it 
which  learning,  combined  with  sanctity  and 
assisted  by  superstition,  can  bestow. 

The  privileges  of  the  clergy  were  extraor- 
dinary.     They    were    not   amenable    to    the 
common  laws  of  the  land.  While  they  governed 
the  laity,  the  laity  had  no  power  over  them. 
From   the   throne    downwards,    every   secular 
office  was  dependent  on  the  Church.     No  king 
was  a  lawful  sovereign  till  the  Church  placed 
the  crown  upon  his  head  :  and  what  the  Church 
bestowed,  the  Church  claimed  the  right  to  take 
away.     The   disposition    of   property   was    in 
their  hands.     No  will  could  be  proved  except 
before  the  bishop  or  his  officer ;  and  no  will  was 
held  valid  if  the  testator  died  out  of  commun- 
ion.    There   were    magistrates    and  courts   of 
law  for  the  offences  of  the  laity.     If  a  priest 
committed  a  crime,  he  was  a  sacred  person. 
The  civil  power  could  not  touch  him  ;  he  was 
reserved  for   his  ordinary.     Bishops'  commis- 
saries sat  in  town  and  city,  taking  cognizance  of 
the  moral  conduct  of   every  man  and  woman. 
Offences  against  life  and  property  were  tried 
here  in  England,  as  now,  by  the  common  law  ; 
but  the  Church  Courts  dealt  with  sins — sins  of 
word  or  act.     If  a  man  was  profligate   or  a 
drunkard ;  if  he   lied  or  swore  ;  if  he  did  not 
come   to  communion,  or  held  unlawful    opin- 
ions ;  if  he  was  idle  or  unthrifty  ;  if  he   was 
unkind  to  his  wife  or  his  servants  ;  if  a  child 
was  disobedient  to  his  father,  or  a  father  cruel 
to  his  child  ;  if  a  tradesman  sold  adulterated 
wares,  or   used   false   measures   or   dishonest 
weights, — the   eye    of   the    parish    priest   was 
everywhere,  and  the  Church  Court  stood  always 
open  to  examine  and  to  punish. 

Imagine  what  a  tremendous  power  this  must 
have  been  !  Yet  it  existed  generally  in  Catho- 
lic Europe  down  to  the  eve  of  the  Reforma- 
tion.    It  could  never  have  established  itself  at 


l8  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

all  unless  at  one  time  it  had  worked  benefici- 
ally— as  the  abuse  of  it  was  one  of  the  most 
fatal  causes  of  tlie  Church's  fall. 

I  know  notliing  in  Kngiish  history  much 
more  striking  than  the  answer  given  by  Arch- 
bishop Warham  to  the  complaints  of  the  Eng- 
lisli  House  of  Commons  after  the  fall  of  Cardi- 
nal Wolsey.  The  House  of  Commons  com- 
plained that  the  clergy  made  laws  in  Convoca- 
tion which  the  laity  were  excommunicated  if 
they  disobeyed.  Yet  the  laws  made  by  the 
clergy,  the  Commons  said,  were  often  at  vari- 
ance with  the  laws  of  the  realm. 

What  did  Warham  reply  ?  He  said  he  was 
sorry  for  the  alleged  discrepancy ;  but  inas- 
much as  the  laws  made  by  the  clergy  were 
always  in  conformity  with  the  will  of  God,  the 
laws  of  the  realm  had  only  to  be  altered  and 
then  the  difficulty  would  vanish. 

What  must  have  been  the  position  of  the 
clergy  in  the  fulness  of  their  power,  when  they 
could  speak  thus  on  the  eve  of  their  prostra- 
tion ?  You  have  only  to  look  from  a  distance 
at  any  old-fashioned  cathedral  city,  and  you 
will  see  in  a  moment  the  mediaival  relations 
between  Church  and  State,  The  cathedral  is 
the  city.  The  first  object  you  catch  sight  of 
as  you  approach  is  the  spire  tapering  into  the 
sky,  or  the  huge  towers  holding  possession  of 
the  centre  of  the  landscape  —  majestically 
beautiful — imposing  bv  mere  size  amidst  the 
large  forms  of  Nature  herself.  As  you  go 
nearer  the  vastness  of  the  building  impresses 
you  more  and  more.  The  puny  dwelling- 
places  of  the  citizens  creep  at  its  feet,  the 
pinnacles  are  glittering  in  the  tints  of  the  sunset, 
when  down  below  among  the  streets  and  lanes 
the  twilight  is  darkening.  And  even  now, 
when  the  towns  are  thrice  their  ancient  size, 
and  the  houses  have  stretched  upwards  from 
two  stories  to  five  ;  when  the  great  chimneys 
are  vomiting  their  smoke  among  the  clouds, 
and  the  temples  of  modern  industry — the  work- 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  19 

shops  and  the  factories— spread  their  long 
fronts  before  the  eye,  the  cathedral  is  still  the 
governing  form  in  the  picture — the  one  object 
which  possesses  the  imagination  and  refuses 
to  be  eclipsed. 

As  that  cathedral  was  to  the  old  town,  so 
was  the  Church  of  the  middle  ages  to  the 
secular  institutions  of  the  world.  Its  very- 
neighborhood  was  sacred  ;  and  its  shadow, 
like  the  shadow  of  the  Apostles,  was  a  sanctu- 
ary. When  I  lock  at  the  new  Houses  of 
Parliament  in  London,  I  see  in  them  a  type  of 
the  change  which  has  passed  over  us.  The 
House  of  Commons  of  the  Plantngenets  sat  in 
the  Chapter  House  of  Westminster  Abbey. 
The  Parliament  of  the  Reform  Bill,  five-and- 
thirty  years  ago,  debated  in  St.  Stephen's 
Chapel,  the  Abbey's  small  dependency.  Now, 
by  the  side  of  the  enormous  pile  which  has 
risen  out  of  that  chapel's  ashes,  the  proud 
Minster  itself  is  dwarfed  into  insignificance. 

Let  us  turn  to  another  vast  feature  of  the 
middle  ages — I  mean  the  monasteries. 

Some  person  of  especial  and  exceptional 
holiness  has  lived  or  died  at  a  particular  spot. 
He  has  been  distinguished  by  his  wisdom,  by 
his  piety,  by  his  active  benevolence ;  and  in 
an  age  when  conjurers  and  witches  were  sup- 
posed to  be  helped  by  the  devil  to  do  evil,  he, 
on  his  part,  has  been  thought  to  have  pos- 
sessed in  larger  measuie  than  common  men 
the  favor  and  the  grace  of  heaven.  Blessed 
influences  hang  about  the  spot  which  he  has 
hallowed  by  his  presence.  Plis  relics— his 
household  possessions,  his  books,  his  clothes, 
his  bones,  retain  the  shadowy  sanctity  which 
they  received  in  having  once  belonged  to  him. 
We  all  set  a  value,  not  wholly  unreal,  on  any- 
thing which  has  been  the  property  of  a  remark- 
able man.  At  worst,  it  is  but  an  exaggeration 
of  natural  reverence. 

Well,  as  novv-a-days  we  build  monuments  to 
great  men,  so   in   the    middle  ages    they  built 


20  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

shrines  or  chapels  on  the  spots  which  saints 
lind  made  holy,  and  communities  of  pious 
jieople  gathered  together  there — beginning 
with  the  personal  friends  the  saint  had  left 
behind  him — to  trv  to  live  as  he  had  lived,  to 
do  good  as  he  had  done  good,  and  to  die  as 
he  had  died.  Thus  arose  religious  fraternities 
— companies  of  men  who  desired  to  devote 
themselves  to  goodness — to  give  up  pleasure, 
and  amusement,  and  self-indulgence,  and  to 
spend  their  lives  in  prayer  and  works  of 
charity. 

These  houses  became  centres  of  pious  bene- 
ficence. The  monks,  as  the  brotherhoods  were 
called,  were  organized  in  different  orders,  with 
sorrie  variety  of  rule,  but  the  broad  principle 
was  the  same  in  all.  They  were  to  live  for 
others,  not  for  themselves.  They  took  vows 
of  poverty,  that  they  might  not  be  entangled 
in  the  pursuit  of  money.  They  took  vows  of 
chastitv,  that  the  care  of  a  familv  might  not 
distract  them  from  the  work  which  they  had 
undertaken.  Their  efforts  of  charity  were  not 
limited  to  this  world.  Their  days  were  spent 
in  hard  bodily  labor,  in  study,  or  in  visiting 
the  sick.  At  nisrht  thev  were  on  the  stone- 
floors  of  their  chapels,  holding  up  their  withered 
hands  to  heaven,  interceding  for  the  poor 
souls  who  were  suffering  in  purgatory. 

The  world,  as  it  always  will,  paid  honor  to 
exceptional  excellence.  The  system  spread  to 
the  furthest  limits  of  Christendom.  The  religi- 
ous houses  became  places  of  refuge,  where  men 
of  noble  birth,  kings  and  queens  and  emperors, 
warriors  and  statesmen,  retired  to  lay  down 
their  splendid  cares,  and  end  their  days  in 
peace.  Those  with  whom  the  world  had  dealt 
hardly,  or  those  whom  it  had  surfeited  with 
its  unsatisfying  pleasures,  those  who  were  dis- 
appointed with  earth,  and  those  who  were  filled 
with  passionate  aspirations  after  heaven,  alike 
found  a  haven  of  rest  in  the  quiet  cloister. 
And,   gradually,    lands    came   to    them,    and 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  21 

wealth,  and  social  dii^nity — all  gratefully  ex- 
tended to  men  who  deserved  so  well  of  their 
fellows  ;  while  no  landlords  were  more  popu- 
lar than  they,  for  the  sanctity  of  the  monks 
sheltered  their  dependents  as  well  as  them- 
selves. 

Travel  now  through  Ireland,  and  you  will 
Bee  in  the  wildest  parts  of  it  innumerable  re- 
mains of  religious  houses,  which  had  grown 
up  among  a  people  who  acknowledged  no  rule 
among  themselves  except  the  sword,  and  where 
every  chief  made  war  upon  his  neighbor  as 
the  humor  seized  him.  The  monks  among 
the  O's  and  the  Mac's  were  as  defenceless  as 
sheep  among  the  wolves;  but  the  wolves 
spared  them  for  their  character.  In  such  a 
country  as  Ireland  then  was,  the  monasteries 
could  not  have  survived  for  a  generation  but 
for  the  enchanted  atmosphere  which  surrounded 
them. 

Of  authority,  the  religious  orders  were  prac- 
tically independent.  They  were  amenable 
only  to  the  Pope  and  to  their  own  superiors. 
Here  in  England,  the  king  could  not  send  a 
commissioner  to  inspect  a  monastery,  nor  even 
send  a  policeman  to  arrest  a  criminal  who 
had  taken  shelter  within  its  walls.  Arch- 
bishops and  bishops,  powerful  as  they  were, 
found  their  authority  cease  when  they  entered 
the  gates  of  a  lienedictine  or  Dominican 
abbey. 

So  utterly  have  times  changed,  that 
with  your  utmost  exertions  you  will  hardly  be 
able  to  picture  to  3'ourselves  the  Catholic 
Church  in  the  days  of  its  greatness.  Our 
school-books  tell  us  how  the  Emperor  of 
Germany  held  the  stirrup  for  Pope  Gregory  the 
Seventh  to  mount  his  mule ;  how  our  own 
English  Henrv  Plantagenet  walked  barefoot 
through  the  streets  of  Canterbury,  and  knelt 
in  the  Chapter  House  for  the  monks  to  flog 
him.  The  first  of  these  incidents,  I  was 
brought  up  to  believe,  proved  the  Pope  to  be 


2  2  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

the  man  of  Sin.  Anyhow,  they  are  both  facts, 
and  not  romances;  and  you  may  form  some 
notion  from  them  how  high  in  the  World's  eyes 
the  Church  must  have  stood. 

And  be  sure  it  did  not  achieve  that  proud 
position  without  deserving  it.  The  Teutonic 
and  Latin  ])rinces  were  not  credulous  fools; 
ind  when  they  submitted,  it  was  to  something 
stronger  than  themselves^ — stronger  in  limb  and 
muscle,  or  stronger  in  intellect  and  character. 

So  the  Church  was  in  its  vigor :  so  the 
Church  was  not  at  the  opening  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  Power — wealth — security — men  are 
more  than  mortal  if  they  can  resist  the  temp- 
tations to  which  too  much  of  these  expose  them. 
Nor  were  they  the  only  enemies  which  under- 
mined the  energies  of  the  Catholic  clergy. 
Churches  exist  in  this  world  to  remind  us  of 
the  eternal  laws  which  we  are  bound  to  obey. 
So  far  as  they  do  this,  they  fulfil  their  end,  and 
are  honored  in  fulfilling  it.  It  would  have 
been  better  for  all  of  us — it  would  be  better 
for  us  now,  could  Churches  keep  this  their 
peculiar  function  steadily  and  singly  before 
them.  Unfortunately,  they  have  preferred  in 
later  times  the  speculative  side  of  things  to  the 
practical.  They  take  up  into  their  teaching 
opinions  and  theories  which  are  merely  ephem- 
eral ;  which  would  naturally  die  out  with  the 
progress  of  knowledge  ;  but,  having  received 
a  spurious  sanctity,  prolong  their  days  un- 
seasonably, and  become  first  unmeaning,  and 
then  occasions  of  superstition. 

It  matters  little  whether  I  say  a  paternoster 
in  English  or  Latin,  so  that  what  is  present  to 
my  mind  is  the  thought  which  the  words  express, 
and  not  the  words  themselves.  In  these  and 
all  languages  it  is  the  most  beautiful  of  prayers. 
]5ut  you  know  that  people  came  to  look  on  a 
Latin  pateniosler  as  the  most  powerful  of 
spells — potent  in  heaven,  if  said  straight- 
forward if  repeated  backward,  a  charm  which  no 
in  hell  could  resist. 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.'  2' 


o 


So  it  is  in  my  opinion  with  all  forms — forms 
of  words,  or  forms  of  ceremony  and  ritualism. 
While  the  meaning  is  alive  in  them,  they  are 
not  only  harmless,  but  pregnant  and  life-giving. 
When  we  come  to  think  that  they  possess  in 
themselves  material  and  magical  virtues,  then 
,the  purpose  which  they  answer  is  to  hide  God 
from  us  and  make  us  practically  into  Atheists. 

This  is  what  I  believe  to  have  gradually 
fallen  upon  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  gener- 
ations which  preceded  Luther.  The  body 
remained  ;  the  mind  was  gone  away  :  the 
original  thought  which  its  symbolism  repre- 
sented was  no  longer  credible  to  intelligent 
persons. 

The  acute  were  conscious  unbelievers.  In 
Italy,  when  men  went  to  mass  they  spoke  of  it 
as  going  to  a  comedy.  You  may  have  heard 
the  story  of  Luther  in  his  younger  days  saying 
mass  at  an  altar  in  Rome,  and  hearing  his 
fellow-priests  muttering  at  the  consecration  of 
the  Eucharist,  '  Bread  thou  art,  and  bread  thou 
wilt  remain.' 

Part  of  the  clergy  were  profane  scoundrels 
like  these  ;  the  rest  repeated  the  words  of  the 
service,  conceiving  that  they  were  working  a 
charm.  Religion  was  passing  through  the 
transformation  which  all  religions  have  a  ten- 
dency to  undergo.  They  cease  to  be  aids  and 
incentives  to  holy  life  ;  they  become  contriv- 
ances rather  to  enable  men  to  sin,  and  escape 
the  penalties  of  sin.  Obedience  to  the  law  is 
dispensed  with  if  men  will  diligently  profess 
certain  opinions,  or  punctually  perform  certain 
external  duties.  However  scandalous  the 
moral  life,  the  participation  of  a  particular  rite, 
or  the  profession  of  a  particular  belief,  at  the 
moment  of  death,  is  held  to  clear  the  score. 

The  powers  which  had  been  given  to  the 
clergy  required  for  their  exercise  the  highest 
wisdom  and  the  highest  probity.  They  had 
fallen  at  last  into  the  hands  of  men  who  pos- 
sessed considerably  less  of  these  qualities  than 


2  4  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

the  laity  whom  tliey  undertook  to  govern. 
They  had  degraded  their  conceptions  of  God  ; 
and,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  they  had 
degraded  their  conceptions  of  man  and  man's 
duty.  The  aspirations  after  sanctity  had  dis- 
appeared, and  instead  of  them  there  remained 
the  practical  reality  of  the  {y\-Q.  senses.  The 
high  i^relates,  the  cardinals,  the  great  abbots, 
were  occupied  chiefly  in  maintaining  their 
splendor  and  luxury.  The  friars  and  the 
secular  clergy,  following  their  superiors  with 
shorter  steps,  indulged  themselves  in  grosser 
pleasures;  while  their  spiritual  powers,  their 
supposed  authority  in  this  world  and  the  next, 
were  turned  to  account  to  obtain  from  the  laity 
the  means  for  their  self-indulgence. 

The  Church  forbade  the  eating  of  meat  on 
fast  days,  but  the  Church  was  ready  with  dis- 
pensations for  those  who  could  afford  to  pay 
for  them.  The  Church  forbade  marriage  to 
the  fourth  degree  of  consanguinity,  but  loving 
cousins,  if  they  were  ricii  and  open-handed, 
could  obtain  the  Church's  consent  to  their 
union.  There  were  toll-gates  for  the  priests  at 
every  halting-place  on  the  road  of  life — fees  at 
weddings,  fees  at  funerals,  fees  whenever  an 
excuse  could  be  found  to  fasten  them.  Even 
when  a  man  was  dead  he  was  not  safe  from 
plunder,  for  a  mortuary  or  death  present  was 
exacted  of  his  family. 

And  then  those  Bishops'  Courts,  of  which  I 
spoke  just  now :  they  were  founded  for  the 
discipline  of  morality — they  were  made  the 
instruments  of  the  most  detestable  extortion, 
if  an  impatient  layman  spoke  a  disrespectful 
word  of  the  clergrv,  he  was  cited  before  the 
bishop's  commissary  and  fined.  If  he  refused 
to  pay  he  was  excommunicated,  and  excom- 
munication was  a  poisonous  disease.  When  a 
poor  wretch  was  under  the  ban  of  the  Church 
no  tradesman  might  sell  him  clothes  or  food — 
no  friend  might  relieve  him — no  human  voice 
might  address  him,    under  pain   of   the    same 


ERASMUS  AN  J)  LUTIIEK. 


25 


sentence  ;  and  if  he  died  unreconciled,  he  died 
like  a  dog,  without- the  sacraments,  and  was 
refused  Christian  burial. 

The  records  of  some  of  these  courts  survive  : 
a  glance  at  their  pages  will  show  the  principles 
on  which  ihcy  were  worked.  When  a  layman 
offended,  the  single  object  was  to  make  him 
pay  for  it.  The  magistrates  could  not  protect 
him.  If  he  resisted,  and  his  friends  supported 
him,  so  much  the  better,  for  they  were  now  all 
in  *je  scrape  together.  The  next  step  would 
h  J  to  indict  them  in  a  body  for  heresy;  and 
then,  of  course,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
give  way,  and  compound  for  absolution  by 
money. 

It  was  money — ever  money.  Even  in  case 
of  real  delinquency,  it  was  still  money.  Money, 
not  charity,  covered  the  multitude  of  sins. 

I  have  told  you  that  the  clergy  were  exempt 
from  secular  jurisdiction.  They  claimed  to  be 
amenable  only  to  spiritual  judges,  and  they 
extended  the  broad  fringe  of  their  order  till  the 
word  clerk  was  construed  to  mean  any  one  w^ho 
could  write  his  name  or  read  a  sentence  from  a 
book.  A  robber  or  a  murderer  at  the  assizes 
had  but  to  show  that  he  possessed  either  of 
these  qualifications,  and  he  was  allowed  what 
was  called  benefit  of  clergy.  His  case  was 
transferred  to  the  Bishop's  Court,  to  an  easy 
judge,  who  allowed  him  at  once  to  compound. 

Such  were  the  clergy  in  matters  of  this 
world.  As  religious  instructors  they  appear  in 
colors  if  possible  less  attractive. 

Practical  religion  throughout  Europe  at  the 
beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century  was  a  very 
simple  affair.  I  am  not  going  to  speak  of  the 
mysterious  doctrines  of  the  Catholic  Church. 
The  creed  which  it  professed  in  its  schools  and 
theological  treatises  was  the  same  which  it 
professes  now,  and  which  it  had  professed  at 
the  time  when  it  was  most  powerful  for  good. 
I  do  not  myself  consider  that  the  formulas 
in  which  men  express  their  belief  are  of  much 


26  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

consequence.  The  question  is  rather  of  the 
thing  expressed  ;  and  so  long  as  we  find  a  liv- 
ing consciousness  that  above  the  world  and 
above  human  life  there  is  a  righteous  God, 
who  will  judge  men  according  to  their  words, 
whether  they  say  their  prayers  in  Latin  or 
English,  whether  they  call  themselves  Protes- 
tant or  call  themselves  Catholics,  appears  to  me 
of  quite  secondary  importance.  But  at  the  time 
I  speak  of,  that  consciousness  no  longer  ex- 
isted. The  formulas  and  ceremonies  were  all 
in  all  ;  and  of  God  it  is  hard  to  say  what  con- 
ceptions men  had  formed,  when  they  believed 
that  a  dead  man's  relations  could  buy  'him  out 
of  purgatory — buy  him  out  of  purgatory, — for 
this  was  the  literal  truth — by  hiring  priests  to 
sing  masses  for  his  soul. 

Religion,  in  the  minds  of  ordinary  people, 
meant  that  the  keys  of  the  other  world  were 
held  by  the  clergy.  If  a  man  confessed  reg- 
ularly to  his  priest,  received  the  sacrament, 
and  was  absolved,  then  all  was  well  with  him. 
His  duties  consisted  in  going  to  confession  and 
to  mass.  If  he  committed  sins,  he  was  pre- 
scribed penances,  which  could  be  commuted 
for  money.  If  he  was  sick  or  ill  at  ease  in  his 
mind,  he  was  recommended  a  pilgrimage — a 
pilgrimage  to  a  shrine  or  a  holy  well,  or  to 
some  wonder-working  image — where,  for  due 
consideration,  his  case  would  be  attended  to. 
It  was  no  use  to  go  to  a  saint  empty-handed. 
The  rule  of  the  Church  was,  nothing  for  noth- 
ing. At  a  chapel  in  Saxony  there  was  an  image 
of  a  Virgin  and  Child.  If  the  worshipper  came 
to  it  with  a  good  handsome  offering,  the  child 
bowed  and  was  gracious  :  if  the  present  was 
unsatisfactory,  it  turned  away  its  head,  and 
withheld  its  favors  till  the  purse-strings  were 
untied  again. 

There  was  a  great  rood  or  crucifix  of  the 
same  kind  at  Boxley,  in  Kent,  where  the  pil- 
grims went  in  thousands.  This  figure  used  to 
bow,  too,  when   it  was   pleased  ;  and    a  goo*^' 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  27 

sum  of  money  was  sure    to    secure    its   good 
will. 

When  the  Reformation  came,  and  the  police 
looked  into  the  matter,  the  images  were  found 
to  be  worked  with  wires  and  pulleys.  The 
German  lady  was  kept  as  a  curiosity  in  the 
cabinet  of  the  Elector  of  Saxony.  Our  Boxley 
rood  was  brought  up  and  exhibited  in  Cheap- 
side,  ar  i  was  afterwards  torn  in  pieces  by  the 
peopi  -. 

Nor  here  again  was  death  the  limit  of  ex- 
tor  ion  :  death  was  rather  the  gate  of  the  sphere 
which  the  clergy  made  peculiarly  their  own. 
When  a  man  died,  his  friends  were  naturally 
anxious  for  the  fate  of  his  soul.  If  he  died  in 
communion,  he  was  not  in  the  worst  place  of 
all.  He  had  not  been  a  saint,  and  therefore 
he  was  not  in  the  best.  Therefore  he  was  in 
purgatory — Purgatory  Pickpurse,  as  our  Eng- 
lish Latimer  called  it — and  a  priest,  if  properly 
paid,  could  get  him  out, 

To  be  a  mass  priest,  as  it  was  called,  .was  a 
regular  profession,  in  which,  with  little  trouble, 
a  man  could  earn  a  comfortable  living.  He 
had  only  to  be  ordained  and  to  learn  by  heart 
a  certain  form  of  words,  and  that  was  all  the 
equipment  necessary  for  him.  The  masses, 
were  paid  for  at  so  much  a  dozen,  and  for 
every  mass  that  was  said,  so  many  years  were 
struck  off  from  the  penal  period.  Two  priests 
were  sometimes  to  be  seen  muttering  away  at 
the  opposite  ends  of  the  same  altar,  like  a 
couple  of  musical  boxes  playing  different  parts 
of  the  same  tune  at  the  same  time.  It  made 
no  difference.  The  upper  powers  had  what 
they  wanted.  If  they  got  the  masses,  and  the 
priests  got  the  money,  all  parties  concerned 
were  satisfied. 

I  am  speaking  of  the  form  which  these 
things  assumed  in  an  age  of  degradation  and 
iirnorance.  The  truest  and  wisest  words  ever 
spoken  by  man  might  be  abused  in  the  same  way. 

The  Sermon  on  the  Mount  or  the  Apostles' 


28  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

Creed  if  recited  mechanicallv,  and  relied  on 
to  work  a  mechanical  effort  would  be  no  less 
perniciously  idolatrous. 

You  can  see  something  of  the  same  kind  in 
a  milder  form  in  Spain  at  the  present  day. 
The  Spaniards,  all  of  them,  high  and  low,  are 
expected  to  buy  annuall}',  a  Pope's  Bula  or 
Bull — a  small  pardon,  or  indulgence,  or  plenary 
remission  of  sins.  The  exact  meaning  of 
these  things  is  a  little  obscure  ;  the  high  au- 
thorities themselves  do  not  universally  agree 
about  them,  except  so  far  as  to  say  that  they 
are  of  prodigious  value  of  some  sort.  The 
orthodox  explanation,  I  believe,  is  something 
of  this  kind.  With  every  sin  there  is  the  moral 
guilt  and  the  temporal  penalty.  The  pardon 
cannot  touch  the  guilt ;  but  when  the  guilt  is 
remitted,  there  is  still  the  penalty.  I  may 
ruin  m)''  health  by  a  dissolute  life  ;  I  may  re- 
pent of  my  dissoluteness  and  be  forgiven  ;  but 
the  bad  health  will  remain.  For  bad  health, 
substitute  penance  in  this  world  and  purgatory 
in  the  next  ;  and  in  this  sphere  the  indulgence 
takes  effect. 

Such  as  they  are,  at  any  rate,  everybody  in 
Spain  has  these  bulls  ;  you  buy  them  in  the 
shops  for  a  shilling  apiece. 

This  is  one  form  of  the  thing.  Again,  at 
the  door  of  a  Spanish  church  you  will  see 
hanging  on  the  wall  an  intimation  that  who- 
ever will  pray  so  many  hours  before  a  partic- 
ular image  shall  receive  full  forgiveness  of  his 
sins.  Having  got  that,  one  might  suppose  he 
would  be  satisfied ;  but  no — if  he  prays  so 
many  more  hours,  he  can  get  off  a  hundred 
years  of  purgatory,  or  a  thousand,  or  ten  thou- 
sand. In  one  place  I  remember  observing 
that  for  a  very  little  trouble  a  man  could  escape 
a  hundredand  fifty  thousand  years  of  purgatory. 

What  a  prospect  for  the  ill-starred  Protes- 
tant, who  will  be  lucky  if  he  is  admitted  into 
purgatory  at  all. 

Again,  if  you  enter  a  sacristy,  you  will  sec  a 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  29 

small  board  like  the  notices  addressed  to  par- 
ishioners in  our  vestries.  On  ])articular  days 
it  is  taken  out  and  hung  up  in  the  church,  and 
little  would  a  stranger,  ignorant  of  the  lan- 
guage, guess  the  tremendous  meaning  of  that 
commonplace  appearance.  On  these  boards 
is  written  '  Hoy  se  sacan  animas,' — '  This  day, 
souls  ar'^  taken  out  of  purgatory.'  It  is  an 
iutima^'.on  to  everyone  with  a  friend  in  distress 
that  .low  is  his  time.  You  put  a  shilling  in  a 
plat^,  you  give  your  friend's  name,  and  the 
thing  is  done.  One  wonders  why,  if  purgatory 
can  be  sacked  so  easily,  any  poor  wretch  is  left 
to  suffer  there. 

Such  practices  now-a-days  are  comparatively 
innocent,  the  money  asked  and  given  is  trifling, 
and  probably  no  one  concerned  in  the  business 
believes  much  about  it.  They  serve  to  show, 
however,  on  a  small  scale,  what  once  went  on 
on  an  immense  scale ;  and  even  such  as  they 
are,  pious  Catholics  do  not  much  approve  of 
them.  They  do  not  venture  to  say  much  on 
the  subject  directly,  but  they  allow  themselves 
a  certain  good-humored  ridicule.  A  Spanish 
novelist  of  some  reputation  tells  a  story  of  a 
man  coming  to  a  priest  on  one  of  these  occa- 
sions, putting  a  shilling  in  the  plate,  and  giving 
in  the  name  of  his  friend. 

'  Is  my  friend's  soul  out  "i '  he  asked.  The 
priest  said  it  was.  'Quite  sure?'  the  man 
asked.  'Quite  sure,'  the  priest  answered. 
'  Very  well,'  said  the  man,  '  if  he  is  out  of  pur- 
gatory they  will  not  put  him  in  again  :  it  is  a 
bad  shilling." 

Sadder  than  all  else,  even  as  the  most  beau- 
tiful things  are  worst  in  their  degradation,  was 
the  condition  of  the  monasteries.  I  am  here 
on  delicate  ground.  The  accounts  of  those 
institutions,  as  they  existed  in  England  and 
Germany  at  the  time  of  their  suppression,  is  so 
shocking  that  even  impartial  writers  have 
hesitated  to  believe  the  reports  which  have 
come   down   to   us.     The    laity,  we    are    told, 


30  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

determined  to  appropriate  the  abbey  lands,  and 
maligned  the  monks  to  justify  the  spoliation. 
Were  the  charge  true,  the  religious  orders 
would  slill  be  without  excuse,  for  the  whole 
education  of  the  country  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  clergy ;  and  thev  had  allowed  a  whole 
generation  to  grow  up,  which,  on  this  hypothe- 
sis, was  utterly  depraved. 

But  no  such  theory  can  explain  away  the 
accumulated  testimony  which  comes  to  us — 
exactly  alike — from  so  many  sides  and  wit- 
nesses. We  are  not  dependent  upon  evidence 
which  Catholics  can  decline  to  receive.  In  the 
reign  of  our  Henry  the  Seventh  the  notorious 
corruption  of  some  of  the  great  abbeys  iri 
England  brought  them  under  the  notice  of  the 
Catholic  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  Cardinal 
Morton.  The  Archbishop,  unable  to  meddle 
with  them  by  his  own  authority,  obtained  the 
necessary  powers  from  the  Pope.  He  insti- 
tuted a  partial  visitation  in  the  neighborhood 
of  London  ;  and  the  most  malignant  Protestant 
never  drew  such  a  picture  of  profligate  brutality 
as  Cardinal  Morton  left  behind  him  in  his 
Ivegister,  in  a  description  of  the  great  Abbey 
of  St  Albans.  I  cannot,  in  a  public  lecture, 
give  you  the  faintest  idea  of  what  it  contains. 
The  monks  were  bound  to  celibacy — that  is  to 
say,  they  were  not  allowed  to  marry.  They 
were  full-fed,  idle,  and  sensual;  of  sin  they 
thought  only  as  something  extremely  pleasant, 
of  which  they  could  cleanse  one  another  with 
a  few  mumbled  words  as  easily  as  they  could 
wash  their  faces  in  a  basin.  And  their  I  must 
leave  the  matter.  Anybody  who  is  curious  for 
particulars  may  see  the  original  account  in 
Morton's  Register,  in  the  Archbishop's  library 
at  TyanibctI). 

A  tjuaitcr  uf  a  cenlury  after  this  there  ap- 
peared in  Germany  a  book,  now  called  by 
Catholics  an  infamous  libel,  the  '  Kpistola; 
Obscurorum  Virorum.'  'The  obscure  men,' 
supposed  to    be  the    writers  of   these  epistles, 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  31 

are  monks  or  students  of  theology.  The  let- 
ters themselves  are  written  in  dog-Latin — a 
burlesque  of  the  language  in  which  ecclesias- 
tical people  then  addressed  each  other.  They 
are  sketches,  satirical,  but  not  malignant,  of 
the  moral  and  intellectual  character  of  these 
reverend  personages. 

On  the  moral,  and  by  far  the  most  impor- 
tant, sid'  of  the  matter  I  am  still  obliged  to  be 
silent :  out  I  can  give  you  a  few  specimens  of 
the  furniture  of  the  theological  minds,  and  of 
the  subjects  with  which  they  were  occupied. 

A  student  writes  to  his  ghostly  father  in  an 
agony  of  distress  because  he  has  touched  his 
hat  to  a  Jew.  He  mistook  him  for  a  doctor  of 
divinity  ;  and  on  the  w-hole,  he  fears  he  has 
committed  mortal  sin.  Can  the  father  absolve 
him  ?  Can  the  bishop  absolve  him  ?  Can  the 
Pope  absolve  him  ?  His  case  seems  utterly 
desperate. 

Another  letter  describes  a  great  intellectual 
riddle,  which  was  argued  for  four  days  at 
the  School  of  Logic  at  Louvaine.  A  certain 
Master  of  Arts  had  taken  out  his  degree  at 
Louvaine,  Leyden,  Paris,  Oxford,  Cambridge, 
Padua,  and  four  other  universities.  He  was 
thus  a  member  of  ten  universities.  But  how 
could  a  man  be  a  member  of  ten  universities  ? 
A  university  was  a  body,  and  one  body  might 
have  manv  members  :  but  how  one  member 
could  have  many  bodies,  passed  comprehension. 
In  such  a  monstrous  anomaly,  the  member 
would  be  the  body,  and  the  universities  the 
member,  and  this  would  be  a  scandal  to  such 
grave  and  learned  corporations.  The  holy 
doctor  St.  Thomas  himself  could  not  make  him- 
self into  the  body  of  ten  universities. 

The  more  the  learned  men  argued,  the  deeper 
they  floundered,  and  at  length  gave  up  the 
problem  in  despair. 

Again  :  a  certain  professor  argued  that 
Julius  Caisar  could  not  have  written  the  book 
which    passed    under    the    name   of    'Ca:sar's 


32  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

Commentaries,'  because  that  book  is  written  in 
Latin,  and  Latin  is  a  difficult  language ;  and  a 
man  whose  life  is  spent  in  marching  and  fight- 
ing has  notoriously  no  time  to  learn  Latin. 

Here  is  another  fellow — a  monk  this  one — ■ 
describing  to  a  friend  the  wonderful  things 
which  he  has  seen  in  Rome. 

'You  may  have  heard,' he  says,  'how  the 
Pope  did  possess  a  monstrous  beast  called  an 
Elephant.  The  Pope  did  entertain  for  this 
beast  a  very  great  affection,  and  now  behold  it 
is  dead.  When  it  fell  sick,  the  Pope  called 
his  doctors  about  him  in  great  sorrow,  and  said 
to  them,  "  If  it  be  possible,  heal  my  elephant." 
Then  they  gave  the  elephant  a  purge,  which 
cost  five  hundred  crowns,  but  it  did  not  avail, 
and  so  the  beast  departed ;  and  the  Pope 
grieves  much  for  his  elephant,  for  it  was  indeed 
a  miraculous  beast,  with  a  long,  long,  prodigious 
long  nose  ;  and  when  it  saw  the  Pope  it  kneeled 
down  before  him  and  said,  with  a  terrible  voice, 
"  Bar,  bar,  bar  !  "  ' 

I  will  not  tire  you  with  any  more  of  this  non- 
sense, especially  as  I  cannot  give  you  the  really 
characteristic  parts  of  the  book. 

I  want  you  to  observe,  however,  what  Sir 
Thomas  More  says  of  it,  and  nobody  will  question 
that  Sir  Thomas  More  was  a  good  Catholic  and 
a  competent  witness.  '  These  epistles,'  he  says, 
are  the  delight  of  every  one.  The  wise  enjoy 
the  wit ;  the  blockheads  of  monks  take  them 
seriously,  and  believe  that  they  have  been 
written  to  do  them  honor.  When  we  laugh, 
they  think  we  are  laughing  at  the  style  which 
they  admit  to  be  comical.  ]>ut  they  think  the 
style  is  made  up  for  by  the  beauty  of  the  senti- 
ment. The  scabbard,  they  say,  is  tough,  but 
the  blade  within  it  is  divine.  The  deliberate 
idiots  would  not  have  found  out  the  jest  for 
themselves  in  a  hundred  years," 

Well  might  Erasmus  exclaim,  '  What  fungus 
could  he  more  stupid  ?  yet  these  are  the  At- 
lases who  are  to  uphold  the  tottering  Church  1 ' 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  33 

'  The  monks  had  a  pleasant  lime  of  it,'  says 
Luther.  '  Kvery  brother  had  two  cans  of  beer 
and  a  quart  of  wine  for  his  supper,  with  ginj^er- 
bread,  to  make  him  take  to  his  licjuor  kindly. 
Thus  the  poor  things  came  to  look  like  liery 
angels.' 

And  more  gravely,  '  In  the  cloister  rule  the 
seven  dep  lly  sins — covetousness,  lascivious- 
ness,  unr'eanness,  hate,  envy,  idleness,  and  the 
loathin^  of  the  service  of  God.' 

Consider  such  men  as  these  owning  a  third, 
a  half,  sometimes  two-thirds  of  the  land  in  every 
country  in  Europe,  and,  in  addition  to  their- 
other  sins,  neglecting  all  the  duties  attaching 
to  this  property — the  woods  cut  down  and  sold, 
the  houses  falling  to  ruin — unthrift,  neglect, 
waste  everywhere  and  in  everything — the  shrewd 
making  the  most  of  their  time,  which  they  had 
sense  to  see  might  be  a  short  one — the  rest 
dreaming  on  in  sleepy  sensuality,  dividing  their 
hours  between  the  chapel,  the  pothouse,  and 
the  brothel. 

I  do  not  think  that,  in  its  main  features,  the 
truth  of  this  sketch  can  be  impugned  ;  and  if 
it  be  just  even  in  outline,  then  a  reformation  of 
some  kind  or  other  was  overwhelmingly  neces- 
sary. Corruption  beyond  a  certain  point  be- 
come unendurable  to  the  coarsest  nostril.  The 
constitution  of  human  things  cannot  away  with 
it. 

Something  was  to  be  done  ;  but  what,  or 
how?     There  were  three  possible  courses. 

Either  the  ancient  discipline  of  the  Church 
might  be  restored  by  the  heads  of  the  Church 
themselves. 

Or,  secondly,  a  higher  tone  of  feeling  might 
gradually  be  introduced  among  clergy  and  laity 
alike,  by  education  and  literary  culture.  The 
discoverv  of  the  printing  press  had  made  pos- 
sible a  diffusion  of  knowledge  which  had  been 
unattainable  in  earlier  ages.  The  ecclesiasti- 
cal constitution,  like  a  sick  human  body,  might 


34  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

recover  its  tone  if  a  better  diet  were  prepared 
for  it. 

Or,  lastly,  the  common  sense  of  the  laity 
mi<rht  take  the  matter  at  once  into  their  own 
hands,  and  make  free  use  of  the  pruning  knife 
and  tlie  sweeping  brush.  There  might  be  much 
partial  injustice,  much  violence,  much  wrong- 
headedness  ;  but  the  people  would,  at  any  rate, 
go  direct  to  the  point,  and  the  question  was 
whether  any  other  remedy  would  serve. 

The  first  of  these  alternatives  may  at  once  be 
dismissed.  The  heads  of  the  Church  were  the 
last  persons  in  the  world  to  discover  that  any- 
thing was  wrong.  People  of  that  sort  always 
are.  For  them  the  thing  as  it  existed  answered 
excellently  well.  They  had  boundless  wealth, 
and  all  but  boundless  power.  What  could  they 
ask  for  more  ?  No  monk  drowsing  over  his 
winepot  was  less  disturbed  by  anxiety  than  nine 
out  of  ten  of  the  high  dignitaries  who  were  liv- 
ing on  the  eve  of  the  Judgment  Da)^,  and  be- 
lieved that  their  seat  was  established  for  them 
forever. 

The  character  of  the  great  ecclesiastics  of 
that  day  you  may  infer  from  a  single  example. 
The  Archbishop  of  Mayence  was  one  of  the 
most  enlightened  Churchmen  in  Germany.  He 
was  a  patron  of  the  Renaissance,  a  friend  of 
Erasmus,  a  liberal,  an  intelligent,  and,  as  times 
went,  and  considering  his  trade,  an  honorable, 
liigh-minded  man. 

When  the  Emperor  Maximilian  died,  and 
the  imperial  throne  was  vacant,  the  Archbishop 
of  Mayence  was  one  of  the  seven  electors  who 
had  to  choose  a  new  emperor. 

There  were  two  competitors — Francis  the 
First  and  Maximilian's  grandson,  afterwards 
the  well-known  (Jharles  the  Fifth. 

Well,  of  tlie  seven  electors  six  were  bribed. 
John  Frederick  of  Saxony,  Euther's  friend  and 
protector,  was  the  only  one  of  the  party  who 
came  out  of  the  l:)usincss  with  clean  hands. 

But  the  Archbishop  of  Mayence  took  bribes 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  35 

six  times  alternately  from  both  the  candidates. 
He  took  money  as  coolly  as  the  most  rascally 
ten-pound  householder  in  Yarmouth  or  Totnes. 
and  finally  drove  a  hard  bargain  for  his  actual 
vote. 

The  grape  does  not  grow  upon  the  black- 
thorn ;  nor  does  healthy  reform  come  from  high 
dignitarif  o  like  the  Archbishop  of  Mayence. 

The  jther  aspect  of  the  problem  I  shall  con- 
sider in  the  following  Lectures. 


liv 


In  the  year  1467 — the  year  in  which  Charles 
the  Bold  became  Duke  of  Eurgundy — four 
years  before  the  great  battle  of  Barnet,  which 
established  our  own  fourth  Edward  on  the 
English  throne — about  the  time  when  William 
Caxton  was  setting  up  his  printing  press  at 
Westminster — there  was  born  at  Rotterdam, 
on  the  28th  of  October,  Desiderius  Erasmus, 
His  parents,  who  were  middle-class  people, 
were  well-to-do  in  the  world.  For  some  reason 
or  other  they  were  prevented  from  marrying 
by  the  interference  of  relations.  The  father 
died  soon  after  in  a  cloister ;  the  mother  was 
left  with  her  illegitimate  infant,  whom  she 
called  first,  after  his  father,  Gerard  ;  but  after- 
wards, from  his  beauty  and  grace,  she  chatiged 
his  name — the  words  Desiderius  Erasmus,  one 
with  a  Latin,  the  other  with  a  Greek,  deriva- 
tion, meaning  the  lovely  or  delightful  one. 

Not  long  after,  the  mother  herself  died  also.    ■ 
The  little  Erasmus  was  the  heir  of  a  moderate  •" 
fortune  ;  and  his  guardians  desiring  to  appro- 
priate it  to   themselves,    endeavored   to    force 
him  into  a  convent  at  Brabant. 

The  thought  of  living  and  dying  in  a  house 
of  religion  was  dreadfully  unattractive;  but  an 


36  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

orphan  boy's  resistance  was  easily  overcome. 
He  was  bullied  into  yielding,  and,  when  about 
twenty,  took  the  vows. 

The  life  of  a  monk,  which  was  uninviting  on 
the  surface,  was  not  more  lovely  when  seen 
from  within. 

'A  monk's  holy  obedience,'  Erasmus  wrote 
afterwards,  '  consists  in — what  ?  In  leading 
an  honest,  chaste,  and  sober  life  ?  Not  the 
least.  In  acquiring  learning,  in  study,  and  in- 
dustry ?  Still  less.  A  monk  may  be  a  glutton, 
a  drunkard,  a  whoremonger,  an  ignorant, 
stupid,  malignant,  envious  brute,  but  he  has 
broken  no  vow,  he  is  within  his  holy  obedience. 
He  has  only  to  be  the  slave  of  a  superior  as 
good  for  nothing  as  himself,  and  he  is  an  ex- 
cellent brother.^ 

The  misfortune  of  his  position  did  not  check 
Erasmus's  intellectual  growth,  He  was  a  bril- 
liant, witty,  sarcastic,  mischievous  youth.  He 
did  not  trouble  himself  to  pine  and  mope  ;  but, 
like  a  young  thoroughbred  in  a  drove  of  asses, 
he  used  his  heels  pretty  freely. 

While  he  played  practical  jokeS  upon  the 
unreverend  fathers,  he  distinguished  himself 
equally  by  his  appetite  for  knowledge.  It  was 
the  dawn  of  the  kcnaissance-^the  revival  of 
learning.  The  discovery. of  printing  was  re- 
opening to  modern  Europe  the  great  literature 
of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  the  writings  of  the 
Christian  fathers.  For  studies  of  tiiis  kind, 
P^rasmus,  notwithstanding  the  disadvantages  of 
cowl  and  frock,  displayed  extraordinary  apti- 
tude. He  taught  himself  Greek,  when  Greek 
was  the  language  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
monks,  only  the  devils  spoke  in  the  wrong 
place.  His  Latin  was  as  polished  as  Cicero's  ; 
and  at  length  the  Archbishop  of  Cambray 
heard  of  him,  and  sent  him  to  the  University 
of  Paris. 

At  Paris  he  found  a  world  where  life  could 
be  sufficiently  pleasant,  but  where  his  religious 
habit  was  every  moment  in  his  way.     He  was  a 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTJIER.  37 

priest,  and  so  far  could  not  help  himself.  That 
ink-spot  not  all  the  waters  of  tho  German  Ocean 
could  wash  away.  But  he  did  not  care  for  the 
low  debaucheries,  where  the  frock  and  cowl 
were  at  home.  His  place  was  in  the  society 
of  cultivated  men,  who  were  glad  to  know  him 
and  to  pat'  jnize  him  ;  so  he  shook  off  his  or- 
der, let  nis  hair  grow,  and  flung  away  his 
livery. 

The  Archbishop's  patronage  was  probably 
now  withdrawn.  Life  in  Paris  was  expensive, 
and  Erasmus  had  for  several  years  to  struggle 
with  poverty.  We  see  him,  however,  for  the 
most  part— in  his  early  letters — carrying  a  bold 
front  to  fortune  ;  desponding  one  moment,  and 
larking  the  next  with  a  Paris  grisette  ;  making 
friends,  enjoying  good  company,  enjoying  es- 
pecially good  wine  when  he  could  get  it ;  and, 
above  all,  satiating  his  literary  hunger  at  the 
library  of  the  University. 

In  this  condition,  when  about  eight-and- 
twenty,  he  made  acquaintance  with  two  young 
English  noblemen  who  were  travelling  on  the 
Continent,  Lord  Mountjoy  and  one  of  the 
Greys. 

Mountjoy,  intensely  attracted  by  his  bril- 
liance, took  him  for  his  tutor,  carried  him  over 
to  England,  and  introduced  him  at  the  court  of 
Henry  the  Seventh,  At  once  his  fortune  was 
made.  He  charmed  every  one,  and  in  turn  he 
was  himself  delighted  with  the  country  and  the 
people.  English  character,  English  hospitality, 
English  manners — everything  English  except 
the  beer — equally  pleased  him.  In  the  young 
London  men — the  lawyers,  the  noblemen,  even 
in  some  of  the  clergy — he  found  his  own  pas- 
sion for  learning.  Sir  Thomas  More,  who  was 
a  few  years  younger  than  himself,  became  his 
dearest  friend  ;  and  Warham,  afterwards  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury — Fisher,  afterwards 
Bishop  of  Rochester — Colet,  the  famous  dean 
of  St  Paul's — the  great  Wolsey  himself — recog- 


-*    e^s   ^Ti 


38  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

nized  and  welcomed  the  rising  star  of  Euro- 
i^ean  literature. 
_—  Money  tiowed  in  upon  him.  Warham  gave 
him  a  benefice  in  Kent,  which  was  afterwards 
changed  to  a  pension.  Prince  Henry,  when 
he  became  King,  offered  him — kings  in  those 
days  were  not  bad  friends  to  literature — Henry 
oitered  him,  if  he  would  remain  in  England,  a 
house  large  enough  to  be  called  a  palace,  and 
a  pension  which,  converted  into  our  money, 
would  be  a  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

Erasmus,  however,  was  a  restless  creature, 
and  did  not  like  to  be  caged  or  tethered.  He 
declined  the  King's  terms,  and  Mountjoy  set- 
tled a  pension  on  him  instead.  He  had  now  a 
handsome  income,  and  he  understood  the  art 
of  enjoying  it.  He  moved  about  as  he  pleased 
' — now  to  Cambridge,  now  to  Oxford  and,  as 
the  humor  took  him,  back  again  to  Paris  ;  now 
staying  with  Sir  Thomas  More  at  Chelsea,  now 
going  a  pilgrimage  with  Dean  Colet  to  Becket's 
tomb  at  Canterbury — but  always  studying, 
always  gathering  knowledge,  and  throwing  it 
out  again,  steeped  in  his  own  mother  wit,  in 
shining  P>ssays  or  Dialogues,  which  were  the 
delight  and  the  despair  of  his  contemporaries. 

Everywhere,  in  his  love  of  pleasure,  in  his 
habits  of  thought,  in  his  sarcastic  scepticism, 
you  see  the  healthy,  clever,  well-disposed, 
tolerant,  epicurean,  intellectual  man  of  the 
world. 

He  went,  as  I  said,  with  Dean  Colet  to 
Jacket's  tomb.  At  a  shrine  about  Canterbury 
he  was  shown  an  old  shoe  which  tradition 
called  the  Saint's.  At  the  tomb  itself,  the 
great  sight  was  a  handkerchief  which  a  monk 
took  from  among  the  relics,  and  offered  it  to 
the  crowd  to  kiss.  The  worshippers  touched 
it  in  pious  adoration,  with  clasped  hands  and 
upturned  eyes.  If  tiie  thing  was  genuine,  as 
Erasmus  observed,  it  had  but  served  for  the 
archbishop  to  wipe  his  nose  with — and  Dean 
Colet,  a   i^uritan    before  his  time,   looked  on 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER. 


39 


with  eyes  flashing  scorn,  and  scarcely  able  to 
keep  his  hands  off  the  exhibitors.  Ikit  Eras- 
mus smiled  kindly,  reflecting  that  mankind 
were  fools,  and  in  some  form  or  other  would 
remain  fools.  He  took  notice  only  of  the  pile 
of  gold  and  jewels,  antl  concluded  that  so  much 
wealth  nr^ht  prove  dangerous  to  its  possess- 
ors. 

The  peculiarities  of  the  English  people  in- 
terest'_d  and  amused  him,  '  You  are  going  to 
P^ngland,'  he  wrote  afterwards  to  a  friend ; 
*you  will  not  fail  to  be  pleased.  You  will  find 
the  great  people  there  most  agreeable  and 
gracious  ;  only  be  careful  not  to  presume  upon 
their  intimacy.  They  will  condescend  to  your 
level,  but  do  not  you  therefore  suppose  that 
you  stand  upon  theirs.  The  noble  lords  are 
gods  in  their  own  eyes.' 

'  P'or  the  other  classes,  be  courteous,  give 
your  right  hand,  do  not  take  the  wall,  do  not 
push  yourself.  Smile  on  whom  you  please, 
but  trust  no  one  that  you  do  not  know  ;  above 
all,  speak  no  evil  of  England  to  them.  They 
are  proud  of  their  country  above  all  nations 
in  the  world,  as  they  have  good  reason 
to  be.' 

These  directions  might  have  been  written 
yesterday.  The  manners  of  the  ladies  have 
somewhat  changed.  '  English  ladies,'  says 
Erasmus,  '  are  divinely  pretty,  and  too  good- 
natured.  They  have  an  excellent  custom 
among  them,  that  wherever  you  go  the  girls 
kiss  you.  They  kiss  you  when  you  come,  they 
kiss  vou  when  vou  go,  thev  kiss  vou  at  inter- 
vening  opportunities,  and  their  lips  are  soft, 
warm,  and  delicious.'  Pretty  well  that  for  a 
priest ! 

The  custom,  perhaps,  was  not  quite  so  uni- 
versal as  Erasmus  would  have  us  believe.  His 
own  coaxing  wavs  mav  have  had  something  to 
do  with  it  At  any  rale,  he  found  I'.ngland  a 
highly  agreeable  place  of  residence. 

Meanwhile,  his  reputation  as  a  writer  spread 


40 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


over  the  world.  Latin — the  language  in  which 
he  wrote — was  in  universal  use.  It  was  the 
vernacular  of  the  best  society  in  Europe,  and 
no  living  man  was  so  perfect  a  master  of  it. 
His  satire  flashed  about  among  all  existinsf  in- 
stitutions,  scathing  especially  his  old  enemies 
the  monks  ;  while  the  great  secular  clergy, who 
hated  the  religious  orders,  were  delighted  to 
see  them  scourged,  and  themselves  to  have  the 
reputation  of  being  patrons  of  toleration  and 
reform. 

Erasmus,  as  he  felt  his  ground  more  sure 
under  him,  obtained  from  Julius  the  Second  a 
distinct  release  from  his  monastic  vows  ;  and, 
shortly  after,  when  the  brilliant  Leo  succeeded 
to  the  tiara,  and  gathered  about  him  the  mag- 
nificent cluster  of  artists  who  have  made  his 
era  so  illustrious,  the  new  Pope  invited 
Erasmus  to  visit  him  at  Rome,  and  become 
another  star  in  the  constellation  which  sur- 
rounded the  Papal  throne. 

Erasmus  was  at  this  time  forty  years  old — 
the  age  when  ambition  becomes  powerful  in 
men,  and  takes  the  place  of  love  of  pleasure. 
He  was  received  at  Rome  with  princely  distinc- 
tion, and  he  could  have  asked  for  nothing — 
bishoprics,  red  hats,  or  red  stockings — which 
would  not  have  been  freely  given  to  him  if  he 
would  have  consented  to  remain. 

Put  he  was  too  considerable  a  man  to  be 
tempted  by  finery  ;  and  the  Pope's  livery,  gor- 
geous though  it  might  be,  was  but  a  livery 
after  all.  Nothing  which  Leo  the  Tenth  could 
do  for  Erasmus  could  add  lustre  to  his  coronet. 
More  money  he  might  have  had,  but  of  money 
he  had  already  abundance,  and  outward  dignity 
would  have  been  dearly  bought  by  gilded 
chains.  He  resisted  temptation  ;  he  preferred 
the  northern  air,  where  he  could  breathe  at 
liberty,  and  he  returned  to  England,  half  in- 
clined to  make  his  home  there. 

But  his  own  sovereign  laid  claim  to  his  ser- 
vices ;  the  future  emperor  recalled  him  to  the 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  41 

Low  Countries,  settled  a  handsome  salary 
upon  him,  and  established  him  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Louvaine. 
^^  He  was  now  in  the  zenith  of  his  greatness. 
He  had  an  income  as  large  as  many  an  Eng- 
lish noblenan.  We  find  him  corresponding 
with  por^s,  cardinals,  kings,  and  statesmen; 
and  as  .le  grew  older,  his  mind  became  more 
fixed  upon  serious  subjects.  The  ignorance 
and  brutality  of  the  monks,  the  corruption  of 
the  spiritual  courts,  the  absolute  irreligion  in 
whicn  the  Church  was  steeped,  gave  him  seri- 
ous alarm.  He  had  no  enthusiasms,  no  doc- 
trinal fanaticisms,  no  sectarian  beliefs  or  super- 
stitions. The  breadth  of  his  culture,  his  clear 
understanding,  and  the  worldly  moderation  of 
his  temper,  seemed  to  qualify  him  above  living 
men  to  conduct  a  temperate  reform.  He  saw 
that  the  system  around  him  was  pregnant  with 
danger,  and  he  resolved  to  devote  what  re- 
mained to  him  of  life  to  the  introduction  of  a 
higher  tone  in  the  minds  of  the  clergy. 

The  revival  of  learning  had  by  this  time 
alarmed  the  religious  orders.  Literature  and 
education,  beyond  the  code  of  the  theological 
text-books,  appeared  simply  devilish  to  them. 
When  Erasmus  returned  to  Louvaine,  the 
battle  was  raging  over  the  north  of  Europe. 

The  Dominicans  at  once  recognized  in  Eras- 
mus their  most  dangerous  enemy.  At  first 
they  tried  to  compel  him  to  re-enter  the  order, 
but,  strong  in  the  Pope's  dispensation,  he  was 
so  far  able  to  defy  them.  They  could  bark  at 
his  heels,  but  dared  not  come  to  closer  quar- 
ters :  and  with  his  temper  slightly  rufiled,  but 
otherwise  contented  to  despise  them,  he  took 
up  boldlv  the  task  which  he  had  set  himself. 
.  '  We  kiss  the  old  shoes  of  the  saints,'  he  said, 
'  but  we  never  read  their  works.'  He  under- 
took the  enormous  labor  of  editing  and  trans- 
lating selections  from  the  writings  of  the 
Fathers.  The  New  Testament  was  as  little 
known  as  the  lost  books  of  Tacitus — all  that 


42 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


the  people  knew  of  the  Gospels  and  the  Epistles 
were  the  passages  on  which  theologians  had 
built  up  the  Catholic  formulas.  Erasmus  pub- 
lished the  text,  and  with  it,  and  to  make  it  in- 
telligible, a  series  of  paraphrases,  which  rent 
away  the  veil  of  traditional  and  dogmatic  in- 
terpretation, and  brought  the  teaching  of 
Christ  and  the  Apostles  into  their  natural  rela- 
tion with  reason  and  conscience. 

In  all  this,  although  the  monks  might  curse, 
he  had  countenance  and  encouragement  from 
the  great  ecclesiastics  in  all  parts  of  Europe — 
and  it  is  highly  curious  to  see  the  extreme 
freedom  with  which  they  allowed  him  to  pro- 
pose to  them  his  plans  for  a  Reformation — we 
seem  to  be  listening  to  the  wisest  of  modern 
broad  Churchmen. 

To  one  of  his  correspondents,  an  archbishop 
he  writes : — 

'  Let  us  have  done  with  theological  refine- 
ments. There  is  an  excuse  for  the  Fathers, 
because  the  heretics  forced  them  to  define 
particular  points  ;  but  every  definition  is  a  mis- 
fortune, and  for  us  to  persevere  in  the  same 
way  is  sheer  follv.  Is  no  man  to  be  admitted 
to  grace  who  does  not  know  how  the  Father 
differs  from  the  Son,  and  both  from  the  Spirit  .'* 
or  how  the  nativity  of  the  Son  differs  from  the 
procession  of  the  Spirit  ?  Unless  I  forgive  my 
brother  his  sins  against  me,  God  will  not  for- 
give me  for  my  sins.  Unless  I  have  a  pure 
heart — unless  I  put  away  envy,  hate,  pride, 
avarice,  lust,  I  shall  not  see  God.  But  a  man 
is  not  damned  because  he  cannot  tell  whether 
the  Spirit  has  one  principle  or  two.  Has  he 
the  fruits  of  the  Spirit }  That  is  the  question. 
Is  he  patient,  kind,  good,  gentle,  modest, 
temperate,  chaste?  Inquire  if  you  will,  but  do 
not  define,  'i'rue  religion  is  peace,  and  we 
cannot  have  peace  unless  we  leave  the  con- 
science unshackled  on  obscure  points  on  which 
certainty  is  impossible.  We  hear  now  of  ques- 
tions being  referred  to   the  next  CEcumenical 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER. 


43 


Council — better  a  great  deal  refer  them  to 
doomsday.  Time  was,  when  a  man's  faith  was 
looked  for  in  his  life,  not  in  the  Articles  which  he 
professed.  Necessity  first  brought  Articles  upon 
us,  and,  ever  since,  we  have  refined  and  refined 
till  Christianity  has  become  a  thing  of  words  and 
creeds.  Articles  increase — sincerity  vanishes 
away — contention  grows  hot,  and  charity  grows 
cold.  Then  comes  in  the  civil  power,  with 
stake  and  gallows,  and  men  are  forced  to  pro- 
fess what  they  do  not  believe,  to  pretend  to 
love  what  in  fact  they  hate,  and  to  say  that 
they  understand  what  in  fact  has  no  meaning 
for  them.' 

Again,  to  the  Archbishop  of  Mayence  : — 
'  Reduce  the  dogmas  necessary  to  be  believ- 
ed, to  the  smallest  possible  number ;  you  can 
do  it  without  danger  to  the  realities  of  Chris- 
tianity. On  other  points,  either  discourage  in- 
quiry, or  leave  every  one  free  to  believe  what 
he  pleases — then  we  shall  have  no  more 
quarrels,  and  religion  will  again  take  hold  of 
life.  When  you  have  done  this,  you  can  correct 
the  abuses  of  which  the  world  with  good  reason 
complains.  The  unjust  judge  heard  the  widow's 
prayer.  You  siiould  not  shut  your  ears  to  the 
cries  of  those  for  whom  Christ  died.  He  did 
not  die  for  the  great  only,  but  for  the  poor  and 
for  the  lowly.  There  need  be  no  tumult.  Do 
you  only  set  human  affections  aside,  and  let 
kings  and  princes  lend  themselves  heartily  to 
the  public  good.  But  observe  that  the  monks 
and  friars  be  allowed  no  voice  ;  with  these 
gentlemen  the  world  has  borne  too  long.  They 
care  only  for  their  own  vanity,  their  own  stom- 
achs, their  own  power  ;  and  they  believe  that 
if  the  people  are  enlightened,  their  kingdom 
cannot  stand.' 

Once  more,  to  the  Pope  himself: — 

'  Let  each  man   amend  first  his  own  wicked 

life.     When  he  has   done  that,  and  will  amend 

his  neighbor,  let  him  put  on  Christian  charity, 

which  is  severe  enough  when  severity  is  needed. 


44 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


If  your  Holiness  give  power  to  men  wlio  neithei 
believe  in  Christ  nor  care  for  you,  but  think 
only  of  their  own  appetites,  I  fear  there  will 
be  danger.  We  can  trust  your  Holiness,  but 
there  are  bad  men  who  will  use  your  virtues  as 
a  cloak  for  their  own  malice.' 

That  the  spiritual  rulers  of  Europe  should 
have  allowed  a  man  like  Erasmus  to  use  lan- 
guage such  as  this  to  them  is  a  fact  of  supreme 
importance.  It  explains  the  feeling  of  Goethe, 
that  the  world  would  have  gone  on  better  had 
there  been  no  Luther,  and  that  the  revival  of 
theological  fanaticism  did  more  harm  than 
good. 

But  the  question  of  questions  is,  what  all  this 
latitudinarian  philosophizing,  this  cultivated 
epicurean  gracefulness,  would  have  come  to  if 
left  to  itself;  or  rather,  what  was  the  effect 
which  it  was  inevitably  producing  ?  If  you 
wish  to  remove  an  old  building  without  bring- 
ing it  in  ruins  about  your  ears,  you  must  begin 
at  the  top,  remove  the  stones  gradually  down- 
wards, and  touch  the  foundation  last.  But 
latitudinarian  ism  loosens  the  elementary  prm- 
ciples  of  theology.  It  destroys  the  premises 
on  which  the  do2:matic  system  rests.  It  would 
beg  the  question  to  say  that  this  would  in  itself 
have  been  undesirable;  but  the  practical  effect 
of  it,  as  the  world  then  stood,  would  have  only 
been  to  make  the  educated  into  infidels,  and  to 
leave  the  multitude  to  a  convenient  but  debas- 
ing superstition. 

The  monks  said  that  Erasmus  laid  the  ^g^^ 
and  Luther  hatched  a  cockatrice.  Erasmus 
resented  deeply  such  an  account  of  his  work  ; 
but  it  was  true  after  all.  The  sceptical  philo- 
sophy is  the  most  powerful  of  solvetits,  but  it 
has  no  principle  of  organic  life  in  it  ;  and  what 
of  truth  there  was  in  Erasmus's  teaching  had 
to  assume  a  far  other  form  before  it  was  avail- 
able for  the  reinvigoration  of  religion.  He 
himself,  in  his  clearer  moments,  felt  his  own 
incapacity,  and  desj^aired  of   making   an    im- 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER. 


45 


prcssion  on  the  mass  of  ignorance  with  which 
he  saw  himself  siirroundcd. 

*  The  stupid  monks,'  he  writes,  *  say  mass  as 
a  cobbler  makes  a  shoe  ;  they  come  to  the  altar 
reeking  from  their  filthy  pleasures.  Confession 
with  the  monks  is  a  cloak  to  steal  the  people's 
money,  to  rob  girls  of  their  virtue,  and  commit 
other  crimes  too  horrible  to  name  !  Yet  these 
people  are  the  tyrants  of  Europe,  The  Pope 
himself  is  afraid  of  them.' 

'  Beware  ! '  he  says  to  an  impetuous  friend, 
*  beware  how  you  offend  the  monks.  You  have 
to  do  with  an  enemy  that  cannot  be  slain  ;  an 
order  never  dies,  and  they  will  not  rest  till  they 
have  destroyed  you,' 

The  heads  of  the  Church  might  listen  politely, 
but  Erasmus  had  no  confidence  in  them. 
'Never,'  he  says,  'was  there  a  time  when 
divines  were  greater  fools,  or  popes  and  pre- 
lates more  worldly,'  Germany  was  about  to 
r'eceive  a  signal  illustration  of  the  improvement 
which  it  was  to  look  for  from  liberalism  and 
intellectual  culture. 

We  are  now  on  the  edge  of  the  great  con- 
flagration. Here  we  must  leave  P>asmus  for 
the  present.  I  must  carry  you  brietiy  over 
the  history  of  the  other  great  person  who  was 
preparing  to  play  his  part  on  the  stage.  You 
have  seen  something  of  what  Erasmus  was ; 
you  must  turn  next  to  the  companion  picture 
of  Martin  Luther.  You  will  observe  in  how 
many  points  their  early  experiences  touch,  as 
if  to  show  more  vividly  the  contrast  between 
the  two  men. 

Sixteen  years  after  the  birth  of  Erasmus, 
therefore  in  the  year  1483,  Martin  Luther 
came  into  the  world  in  a  peasant's  cottage,  at 
Eisleben,  in  Saxony.  By  peasant,  you  need  not 
understand  a  common  boor.  Hans  Luther, 
the  father,  was  a  thrifty,  well-to-do  man  for 
his  station  in  life — adroit  with  his  hands,  and 
able  to  do  many  useful  things,  from  farm  work 
to  digging  in  the  mines.     The  family  life  was 


^6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

Strict  and   stern — rather  too  stern,  as  Marti  j* 
thouglit  in  later  life. 

'  ]Je  tem])erate  with  your  children,'  he  saicS, 
long  after,  to  a  friend  ;  *  punish  them  if  they  lie 
or  steal,  but  be  just  in  what  you  do.  It  is  a 
"lighter  sin  to  take  pears  and  apples  than  to 
take  money.  1  shudder  when  I  think  of  what 
I  went  through  myself.  My  mother  beat  me 
about  some  nuts  once  till  the  blood  came.  I 
had  a  terrible  time  of  it,  but  she  meant  well.' 

At  school,  too,  he  fell  into  rough  hands,  and 
the  recollection  of  his  sufferings  made  him 
tender  ever  after  with  young  boys  and  girls, 

'  Never  be  hard  with  children,'  he  used  to 
say.  '  Many  a  fine  character  has  been  ruined 
by  the  stupid  brutality  of  pedagogues.  The 
parts  of  speech  are  a  boy's  pillory.  I  was 
myself  flogged  fifteen  times  in  one  forenoon 
over  the  conjugation  of  a  verb.  Punish  if  you 
will,  but  be  kind  too,  and  let  the  sugar-plum  go 
with  the  rod.'  This  is  not  the  language  of  a 
demagogue  or  a  fanatic  ;  it  is  the  wise  thought 
of  a  tender,  human-hearted  man. 

At  seventeen,  he  left  school  for  the  University 
at  Erfurt.  It  was  then  no  shame  for  a  poor 
scholar  to  maintain  himself  by  alms.  Young 
Martin  had  a  rich  noble  voice  and  a  fine  ear, 
and  bv  sinijing  ballads  in  the  streets  he  found 
ready  friends  and  help.  He  was  still  uncertain 
with  what  calling  he  should  take  up,  when  it 
happened  that  a  young  friend  was  killed  at  his 
side  by  lightning. 

Erasmus  was  a  philosopher.  A  powder 
magazine  was  once  blown  up  by  lightining  in 
a  town  where  Erasmus  was  staying,  and  a 
house  of  infamous  character  was  destroyed. 
The  inhabitants  saw  in  what  had  happened 
the  Divine  anger  against  sin.  Erasmus  told 
them  that  if  there  was  any  anger  in  the  matter, 
it  was  anger  merely  with  the  folly  which  had 
stored  powder  in  an  exposed  situation. 

Luther  possessed  no  such  premature  intelli- 
gence.    He  was  distinguished  from  other  boys 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  47 

only  by  the  greater  power  of  his  feelings  and 
the  vividness  of  his  imagination.  He  saw  in 
his  friend's  death  the  immediate  hand  of  the 
great  Lord  of  the  universe.  His  conscience 
was  terrified.  A  life-long  penitence  seemed 
necessary  to  atone  for  the  faults  of  his  boyhood. 
He  too,  like  Erasmus,  became  a  monk,  not 
forced  into  it — for  his  father  knew  better  what 
the  holy  men  were  like,  and  had  no  wish  to 
have  son  of  his  among  them — but  because  the 
Monk  of  Martin's  imagination  spent  his  nights 
and  days  upon  the  stones  in  prayer  ;  and 
Martin,  in  the  heat  of  his  repentance,  longed 
to  be  kneeling  at  his  side. 

In  this  mood  he  entered  the  Augustine  mon- 
astery at  Erfurt,  He  was  full  of  an  overwhelm- 
ing sense  of  his  own  wretchedness  and  sinful- 
ness. Like  St.  Paul,  he  was  crying  to  be 
delivered  from  the  body  of  death  which  he 
carried  about  him.  He  practiced  all  possible 
austerities.  He,  if  no  one  else,  mortified  his 
flesh  with  fasting.  He  passed  nights  in  the 
chancel  before  the  altar,  or  on  his  knees  on 
the  floor  of  his  cell.  He  weakened  his  body 
till  his  mind  wandered,  and  he  saw  ghosts  and 
devils.  Above  all,  he  saw  the  flaming  image 
of  his  own  supposed  guilt.  God  required  that 
he  should  keep  the  law  in  all  points.  He  had 
not  so  kept  the  law — could  not  so  keep  the  law 
— and  therefore  he  believed  that  he  was  damned. 
One  morning,  he  was  found  senseless  and 
seeminglv  dead  ;  a  brother  played  to  him  on  a 
flute,  and  soothed  his  senses  back  to  conscious- 
ness. 

It  was  long  since  any  such  phenomenon  had 
appeared  among  the  rosy  friars  of  Erfurt.  Tj^py 
could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  him.  Staupitiz, 
the  prior,  listened  to  his  accusations  of  him- 
■  self  in  confession.  '  My  good  fellow.'  he  said, 
'  don't  be  so  uneasy;  you  have  committed  no 
sins  of  the  lenst  consequence  ;  you  have  not 
killed  anvbody,  or  committed  adultery,  or 
things  of  that  sort.  If  you  sin  to  some  purpose, 


48  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

it  is  right  that  you  should  be  uneasy  about  it, 
but  don't  make  mountains  out  of  trifles." 

Very  curious :  to  the  commonplace  man  the 
uncommonplace  is  forever  unintelligible.  What 
was  the  good  of  all  that  excitement — that  agony 
of  self-reproach  for  little  things .''  None  at  all, 
if  the  object  is  only  to  be  an  ordinary  good 
sort  of  man — if  a  decent  fulfilment  of  the  round 
of  common  duties  is  the  be-all  and  the  end- 
all  of  human  life  on  earth. 

The  plague  came  by-and-by  into  the  town. 
The  commonplace  clergy  ran  away — went  to 
their  country-houses,  went  to  the  hills,  went 
anywhere — and  they  wondered  in  the  same  way 
why  Luther  would  not  go  with  them.  They 
admired  him  and  liked  him.  They  told  him 
his  life  was  too  precious  to  be  thrown  away.  He 
answered,  quite  simply,  that  his  place  was  with 
the  sick  and  dying.  A  monk's  life  was  no  great 
matter.  The  sun  he  did  not  doubt  would  con- 
tinue to  shine,  whatever  became  of  him.  '  I 
am  no  St.  Paul,'  he  said,  '  I  am  afraid  of  death  ; 
but  there  are  things  worse  than  death,  and  if 
I  die,  I  die.' 

Even  a  Staupitz  could  not  but  feel  that  he 
had  an  extraordinary  youth  in  his  charge.  To 
divert  his  mind  from  feeding  upon  itself,  he 
devised  a  mission  for  him  abroad,  and  brother 
Martin  was  despatched  on  business  of  the  con- 
vent to  Rome. 

Luther  too,  like  Erasmus,  was  to  see  Rome  ; 
but  how  different  the  figures  of  the  two  men 
there  !  Erasmus  goes  with  servants  and  horses, 
the  polished,  successful  man  of  the  world. 
Martin  Luther  trudges  penniless  and  barefoot 
across  the  Alps,  helped  to  a  meal  and  a  night's 
rest  at  the  monasteries  along  the  road,  or  beg- 
ging, if  the  convents  fail  him,  at  the  farmhouses. 

He  was  still  young,  and  too  much  occupied 
with  his  own  sins  to  know  much  of  the  world 
outside  him.  Erasmus  had  no  dreams.  He 
knew  the  hard  truth  on  most  things.  But  Rome, 
to  Luther's  eager  hopes,  was  the  city  of   the 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  ^q 

saints,  and  the  court  and  palace  of  the  Pope 
fragrant  with  the  odors  of  Paradise.  '  Blessed 
Rome,'  he  cried,  as  he  entered  the  gate — 
'Blessed  Rome,  sanctified  with  the  blood  of 
martyrs  ! ' 

Alas  !  the  Rome  of  reality  was  very  far  from 
blessed.  He  remained  long  enough  to  complete 
his  disenchantment.  The  cardinals,  with  their 
gilded  chariots  and  their  parasols  of  peacocks' 
plumes,  were  poor  representatives  of  the  apos- 
tles. The  gorgeous  churches  and  more  gorgeous 
rituals,  the  pagan  splendor  of  the  paintings, 
the  heathen  gods  still  almost  worshipped  in  the 
adoration  of  the  art  which  had  formed  them,  to 
Luther,  whose  heart  was  heavy  with  thoughts 
of  man's  depravity,  were  utterly  horrible.  The 
name  of  religion  was  there  :  the  thinnest  veil 
was  scarcely  spread  over  the  utter  disbelief 
with  which  God  and  Christ  were  at  heart  re- 
garded. Culture  enough  there  was.  It  was 
the  Rome  of  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo,  of 
Perugino,  and  Benvenuto  ;  but  to  the  poor 
German  monk,  who  had  come  there  to  find 
help  for  his  suffering  soul,  what  was  culture  ? 

He  fled  at  the  first  moment  that  he  could. 
*  Adieu  !  Rome,'  he  said  ;  '  let  all  who  would 
lead  a  holy  life  depart  from  Rome.  Everything 
is  permitted  in  Rome  except  to  be  an  honest 
man.'  He  had  no  thought  of  leaving  the  Roman 
Church.  To  a  poor  monk  like  him  to  talk  of 
leaving  the  Church  was  like  talking  of  leaping 
off  the  planet.  But  perplexed  and  troubled  he  re- 
turned to  Saxony;  and  his  friend  Staupitz, 
seeing  clearly  that  a  monastery  was  no  place 
for  him,  recommended  him  to  the  Elector  as 
Professor  of  Philosophy  at  Wittenberg. 

The  senate  of  Wittenberg  gave  him  the  pul- 
pit of  the  town  church,  and  there  at  once  he 
had  room  to  show  what  was  in  him.  '  This 
Monk,'  said  some  one  who  heard  him,  '  is  a 
marvellous  fellow.  He  has  strange  eyes,  and 
will  give  the  doctors  trouble  by-and-by.' 

He  had  read  deeply,  especially  he  had  read 


so 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


that  rare  and  almost  unknown  book,  the  '  New 
Testament.'  He  was  not  cultivated  like  Erasmus. 
Erasmus  spoke  the  most  polished  Latin.  Luther 
spoke  and  wrote  liis  own  vernacular  German. 
The  latitudinarian  philosophy,  the  analytical 
acuteness,  the  sceptical  toleration  of  Erasmus 
were  alike  strange  and  distasteful  him.  In  all 
things  he  longed  only  to  know  the  truth — to 
shake  off  and  hurl  from  him  lies  and  humbug. 
Superstitious  he  was.  He  believed  in  witches 
and  devils  and  fairies — a  thousand  things  with- 
out basis  iq  fact,  which  Erasmus  passed  by  in 
conternptuous  indifference.  But  for  things 
which  were  really  true — true  as  nothing  else  in 
this  world,  or  any  world,  is  true — the  justice  of 
God,  the  infinite  excellence  gf  good,  the  infinite 
hatefulness  of  evil — these  things  he  believed 
and  felt  with  a  power  of  passionate  conviction 
to  which  the  broader,  feebler  mind  of  the  other 
was  forever  a  stranger. 

We  come  no\y  to  the  memorable  year  1517, 
when  Luther  was  thirty-five  years  old.  A  new 
cathedral  was  in  progress  at  Rome.  Michael  An- 
gelo  had  furnished  Leo  the  Tenth  the  design  of 
St  Peter's ;  and  the  question  of  questions  was  to 
find  money  to  complete  the  grandest  structure 
which  had  ever  been  erected  bv  man. 

]-*ope  Leo  was  the  most  polished  and  cultivat- 
ed of  mankind.  *  The  work  to  be  done  was  to 
be  the  most  splendid  w^hich  art  could  produce. 
The  means  to  which  the  Pope  ha4  recourse 
will  serve  to  show  us  how  much  all  that  would 
have  done  for  us. 

You  remember  what  I  told  you  about  indul- 
gences. The  notable  device  of  his  Holiness 
was  to  send  distinguished  persons  about  Europe 
with  sacks  of  indulgences.  Indulgences  and 
dispensations  !  Dispensations  to  eat  meat  on 
fast-days — dispensations  to  marry  one's  near 
relation — dispensations  for  anything  and  every- 
thing which  the  faithful  might  wish  to  purchase 
who  desired  forbidden  pleasures.  The  dis- 
pensations were  simply  scandalous.    The  indul- 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  rt 

gcnccs — well,  if  a  pious  Catholic  is  asked  now- 
a-days  what  they  were,  he  will  say  that  they 
were  the  remission  of  the  penances  which  the 
Church  inflicts  upon  earth  ;  but  it  is  also  cer- 
tain that  they  would  have  sold  cheap  if  the 
people  had  thought  that  this  \Yas  all  that  they 
were  to  get  by  them.  As  the  thing  was  rep- 
resented by  the  spiritual  hawkers  who  dis- 
posed of  these  wares,  they,  were  letters  of 
credit  on  heaven.  When  the  great  book  was 
opened,  the  people  believed  that  these  papers 
would  he  found  entered  on  the  right  side  of  the 
account.  Debtor — so  many  murders,  so  many 
robberies,  lies,  slanders,  or  debaucheries. 
Creditor — the  merits  of  the  saints  placed  to 
the  account  of  the  delinquent  by  the  Pope's 
letters  in  consideration  of  value  received. 

This  is  the  way  in  which  the  pardon  system 
was  practically  worked.  This  is  the  way  in 
which  it  is  worked  siill,  where  the  same  super* 
stitions  remain. 

If  one  had  asked  Pope  Leo  whether  he 
really  believed  m  these  pardons  of  his,  he  would 
have  said  officiallv  that  the  Church  had  alwavs 
held  that  the  Pope  had  power  to  grant  them 

Had  he  told  the  truth,  he  would  have  added 
privately  that  if  the  people  chose  to  be  fools, 
it  was  not  for  him  to  disappoint  them. 

The  collection  went  on.  The  money  of  the 
faithful  came  in  plentifully  ;  and  the  pedlers 
going  their  rounds  appeared  at  least  in  Sax- 
ony. 

The  Pope  had  bought  the  support  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Mayence,  Erasmus's  friend,  by 
promising  him  half  the  spoil  which  was  gather- 
ed in  his  province.  The  agent  was  the  Dom- 
inican monk  Tetzel,  whose  name  has  acquired 
a  forlorn  notoriety  in  European  history. 

His  stores  were  opened  in  town  after  town. 
He  entered  in  state.  The  streets  everwhere 
were  hung  with  flags.  Bells  were  pealed  ;  nuns 
and  monks  walked  in  procession  before  and 
after  him,  while  he  himself  sat    in   a  chariot, 


52 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


with  the  Papal  Bull  on  a  velvet  cushion  in 
front  of  him.  The  sale-rooms  were  the 
churches.  The  altars  were  decoraied,  the 
candles  lighted,  the  arms  of  St  Peter  blazoned 
conspicuously  on  the  roof.  Tetzel  from  the 
pulpit  explained  the  efficacy  of  his  medicines  ; 
and  if  any  profane  person  doubted  their  power, 
he  was  threatened  with  excommunication. 

Acolytes  walked  through  the  crowds,  clink- 
ing their  plates  and  crying,  '  Buy  !  buy  !  '  The 
business  went  as  merry  as  a  marriage  bell  till 
the  Dominican  came  near  to  Wittenberg. 

Half  a  century  before  such  a  spectacle  would 
have  excited  no  particular  attention.  The  few 
who  saw  through  the  imposition  would  have 
kept  their  thoughts  to  themselves  ;  the  many 
would  have  paid  their  money,  and  in  a  month  j 
all  would  have  been  forgotten. 

But  the  fight  between  the  men  of  letters  and 
the     monks,     the    writings     of    Erasmus   and 
Reuchlin,  the  satires  of  Ulric  von  Hutten,  had 
created  a  silent  revolution  in  the  minds  of  the         i 
younger  laity.  ■ 

A  generation  had  grown  to  manhood  of  whom 
the  Church  authorities  knew  nothing  ;  and  the 
whole  air  of  Germany,  unsuspected  by  pope  or 
prelate,  was  charged  with  electricity. 

Had  Luther  stood   alone,    he,   too,  would         j 
probably  have  remained  silent.     What  was  he, 
a  poor,  friendless,  solitary  monk,  that  he  should 
set  himself  against  the  majesty  of  the  triple         i 
crown  ? 

However  hateful  the  walls  of  a  dungeon,  a 
man  of  sense  confined  alone  there  docs  not 
dash  his  hands  against  the  stones. 

But  Luther  knew  that  his  thoughts  were  the 
thoughts  of  thousands.  Many  wrong  things, 
as  we  all  know,  have  to  be  endured  in  this  | 
world.  Authority  is  never  very  angelic  ;  and 
moderate  injustice,  and  a  moderate  quantity  of 
lies,  are  more  tolerable  than  anarchy. 

But  it  is  with  human  things  as  it  is  with  the 
great  icebergs  which  drift  southward  out  of  the         | 


EKASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  53 

frozen  seas.  They  swim  two-thirds  under 
water,  and  one-third  above  ;  and  so  long  as  the 
equilibrium  is  sustained,  you  would  think  that 
they  were  as  stable  as  the  rocks.  But  the  sea- 
water  is  warmer  than  the  air.  Hundreds  of 
fathoms  down,  the  tepid  current  washes  the 
base  of  the  berg.  Silently  in  those  far  deeps 
the  centre  of  gravity  is  changed  ;  and  then,  in 
a  moment,  with  one  vast  roll,  the  enormous 
mass  heaves  over,  and  the  crystal  peaks  which 
had  been  glancing  so  proudly  in  the  sunlight 
are  buried  in  the  ocean  forever. 

Such  a  process  as  this  had  been  going  on 
in  Germany,  and  Luther  knew  it,  and  knew 
that  the  time  was  come  for  him  to  speak. 
Fear  had  not  kept  him  back.  The  danger  to 
himself  would  be  none  the  less  because  he 
would  have  the  people  at  his  side.  The  fiercer 
the  thunderstorm,  the  greater  peril  to  the 
central  ficjure  who  stands  out  above  the  rest 
exposed  to  it.  But  he  saw  that  there  was  hope 
at  last  of  a  change  ;  and  for  himself — as  he 
said  in  the  plague — if  he  died,  he  died. 

Erasmus  admitted  frankly  for  himself  that 
he  did  not  like  danger. 

*  As  to  me,'  he  wrote  to  Archbishop  Warham, 
'  I  have  no  inclination  to  risk  my  life  for  truth. 
We  have  not  all  strength  for  martyrdom  ;  and 
if  trouble  come,  I  shall  imitate  St  Peter.  Popes 
and  emperors  must  settle  the  creeds.  If  they 
settle  them  well,  so  much  the  better  ;  if  ill,  I 
shall  keep  on  the  safe  side.' 

That  is  to  say,  truth  was  not  the  first  nec- 
essity to  Erasmus.  He  would  prefer  truth,  if 
he  could  have  it.  If  not,  he  could  get  on 
moderately  well  upon  falsehood.  Luther  could 
not.  No  matter  what  the  danger  to  himself,  if 
he  could  smite  a  lie  upon  the  head  and  kill  it, 
he  was  better  pleased  than  by  a  thousand  lives. 
We  hear  much  of  Luther's  doctrine  about  faith. 
Stripped  of  theological  verbiage,  that  doctrine 
means  this. 

Reason  says  that,  on  the  whole,  truth  and 


54 


HISTORICAL   ESSAYS. 


juslicc  are  desirable  things.  They  make  men 
happier  in  themselves,  and  make  society  more 
prosperous.  But  there  reason  ends,  and  men 
will  not  die  for  principles  of  utility.  Faith  says 
that  between  truth  and  lies  there  is  an  infinite 
difference  :  one  is  of  God,  the  other  of  Satan  ; 
one  is  eternally  to  be  loved,  the  other  eternally 
to  be  abhorred.  It  cannot  say  why,  in  language 
intelligible  to  reason.  It  is  the  voice  of  the 
nobler  nature  in  man  speaking  out  of  his 
heart. 

While  Tetzel,  with  his  bull  and  his  gilt  car, 
was  coming  to  Wittenberg,  Luther,  loyal  still 
to  authority  while  there  was  a  hope  that  author- 
ity would  be  on  the  side  of  ri2;ht,  wrote  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Mayence  to  remonstrate. 

The  Archbishop,  as  we  know,  was  to  have  a 
share  of  Tetzel's  spoils  ;  and  what  were  the 
complaints  of  a  poor  insignificant  monk  to  a 
supreme  archbishop  who  was  in  debt  and 
wanted  money  ? 

The  Archbishop  of  Mayence  flung  the  letter 
into  his  waste-paper  basket  ;  and  Luther  made 
his  solemn  appeal  from  earthly  dignitaries  to 
the  conscience  of  the  German  people.  He  set 
up  his  protest  on  the  church  door  at  Witten- 
berg ;  and,  in  ninety-five  propositions  he 
challenged  the  Catholic  Church  to  defend 
Tetzel  and  his  works. 

The  Pope's  indulgences,  he  said,  cannot  take 
away  sins.  God  alone  remits  sins ;  and  He 
pardons  those  who  are  penitent,  without  help 
from  man's  absolutions. 

The  Church  may  remit  penalties  which  the 
Church  inflicts.  But  the  Church's  power  is 
in  this  w'orld  only,  and  does  not  reach  to  purga- 
tory. 

If  God  has  thought  fit  to  place  a  man  in 
purgatory,  who  sliall  say  that  it  is  good  for  him 
to  be  taken  out  of  purgatory  ?  who  shall  say 
that  he  himself  desires  it  ? 

True  repentance  does  not  shrink  from  chas- 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER. 


55 


tiscment.     True  repentance  rather  loves  chas- 
tisement. 

The  bishops  are  asleep.  It  is  better  to  give 
to  the  poor  than  to  buy  indulgences  ;  and  he 
who  sees  his  neighbor  in  want,  and  instead  of 
helping  his  neighbor  buys  a  pardon  for  him- 
self, is  doing  what  is  displeasing  to  God.  Who 
is  this  man  who  dares  to  say  that  for  so  many 
crowns  the  soul  of  a  sinner  can  be  made  whole. 

These,  and  like  these,  were  Luther's  propo- 
sitions. Little  guessed  the  Catholic  prelates 
the  dimensions  of  the  act  which  had  been  done. 
The  Pope,  when  he  saw  the  theses,  smiled  in 
good-natured  contempt.  '  A  drunken  German 
wrote  them,'  he  said  ;  '  when  he  has  slept  off 
his  wine,  he  will  be  of  another  mind.' 

Tetzel  bayed  defiance  ;  the  Dominican  friars 
took  up  the  quarrel ,  and  Hochstrat  of  Cologne, 
Rcuchlin's  enemy,  clamored  for  iire  and 
faggot. 

Voice  answered  voice,  The  religious  houses 
all  Germany  over  were  like  kennels  of  hounds 
howling  to  each  other  across  the  spiritual  waste. 
If  souls  could  not  be  sung  out  of  purgatory^ 
their  occupation  was  gone. 

Luther  wrote  to  Pope  Leo  to  defend  himself ; 
Leo  cited  him  to  answer  for  his  audacity  at 
K-Ome  ;  while  to  the  young  laymen,  to  the 
noble  spirits  all  Europe  over,  Wittenberg 
became  a  beacon  of  light  shining  in  the  univer- 
sal darkness. 

It  was  a  trving  time  to  Luther.  Had  he 
been  a  smaller  man,  he  would  have  been  swept 
away  by  his  sudden  popularity — he  would  have 
placed  himself  at  the  head  of  some  great  demo- 
cratic movement,  and  in  a  few  years  his  name 
would  have  disappeared  in  the  noise  and  smoke 
of  anarchy. 

But  this  was  not  his  nature,  Plis  fellow- 
townsmen  were  heartily  on  his  side.  He' re- 
mained quietly  at  his  post  in  the  Augustine 
Church  at  Wittenberg.  If  the  powers  of  the 
world  came  down  upon  him  and  killed  him,  be 


56  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

was  ready  to  be  killed.  Of  himself  at  all  times 
he  thought  infinitely  little  ;  and  he  believed 
that  his  death  would  be  as  serviceable  to  truth 
as  his  life. 

Killed  undoubtedly  he  would  have  been  if 
the  clergy  could  have  had  their  way.  It  hap- 
I^ened,  however,  that  Saxony  just  then  was 
governed  by  a  prince  of  no  common  order. 
Were  all  princes  like  the  Elector  Frederick,  we 
should  have  no  need  of  democracy  in  this  world 
— we  should  never  have  heard  of  democracy. 
The  clergy  could  not  touch  Luther  against  the 
will  of  the  Wittenberg  senate,  unless  the 
Elector  would  help  ihcm  ;  and,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  everybody,  the  Elector  was  disinclined 
to  consent.  The  Pope  himself  wrote  to  exhort 
him  to  his  duties.  The  Elector  still  hesitated. 
His  professed  creed  was  the  creed  in  which 
the  Church  had  educated  him  ;  but  he  had  a 
clear  secular  understanding  outside  his  for- 
mulas. When  he  read  the  propositions,  they 
did  not  seem  to  him  the  pernicious  things 
which  the  monks  said  they  were.  'There  is 
much  in  the  Bible  about  Christ,'  he  said,  '  but 
not  much  about  Rome.'  He  sent  for  Erasmus 
and  asked  him  what  he  thought  about  the 
matter. 

The  Elector  knew  to  whom  he  was  speaking. 
He  wished  for  a  direct  answer,  and  looked 
Erasmus  full  and  broad  in  the  face.  Erasmus 
pinched  his  thin  lips  together.  '  Luther,'  he 
said  at  length,  'has  committed  two  sins  :  he 
has  touched  the  Pope's  crown  and  the  monks' 
bellies.' 

He  generously  and  strongly  urged  Frederick 
not  to  yield  for  the  present  to  Pope  Leo's  im- 
portunacy;  and  the  Pope  was  obliged  to  try 
less  hasty  and  more  formal  methods. 

He  had  wished  Luther  to  be  sent  to  him  to 
Rome,  where  his  process  would  have  had  a 
rapid  end.  As  this  could  not  be,  the  case  was 
transferred  to  Augsburg,  and  a  cardinal  legate 
was  sent  from  Italy  to  look  into  it. 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTIIEK,  57 

There  was  no  clanger  of  violence  at  Augs- 
burg. The  towns-people  tliere  and  everywhere 
■were  on  the  side  of  freedom  ;  and  Luther  went 
cheerfully  to  defend  himself.  He  walked  from 
Wittenberg.  You  can  fancy  him  still  in  his 
monk's  brown  frock,  with  all  his  wardrobe  on 
his  back — an  apostle  of  th.e  old  sort.  The 
citizens,  high  and  low,  attended  him  to  the 
gates,  and  followed  him  along  the  road,  crying 
'  Luther  forever!  '  '  Nay,'  he  answered, '  Christ 
forever ! ' 

The  cardinal  legate,  being  reduced  to  the 
necessity  of  politeness,  received  him  civilly. 
He  told  him  however,  simply  and  briefly,  that 
the  Pope  insisted  on  his  recantation,  and  would 
accept  nothing  else.  Luther  requested  the 
cardinal  to  point  out  to  him  where  he  was 
wrong.  The  cardinal  waived  discussion.  '  He 
was  conic  to  command,'  he  said,  '  not  to  argue.' 
And  Luther  had  to  tell  him  that  it  could  not  be. 

Remonstrances,  threats,  entreaties,  even 
bribes  were  tried.  Hopes  of  high  distinction 
and  reward  were  held  out  to  him  if  he  would 
only  be  reasonable.  To  the  amazement  of  the 
proud  Italian,  a  poor  peasant's  son — a  miser- 
able friar  of  a  provincial  German  town — was 
prepared  to  defy  the  power  and  resist  the 
prayers  of  the  Sovereign  of  Christendom. 

'  What ! '  said  the  cardinal  at  last  to  him, 
'do  you  think  the  Pope  cares  for  the  opinion 
of  a  German  boor.^  The  Poj^e's  little  finger  is 
stronger  than  all  Germany.  Do  you  expect 
your  princes  to  take  up  arms  to  defend  jy?// — 
you,  a  wretched  worm  like  you;  I  tell  you, 
No  !  and  where  will  you  be  then  ? 

Luther  answered,  '  then,  as  now,  in  the  hands 
of  Almighty  God.' 

The  court  dissolved.  The  cardinal  carried 
back  his  report  to  his  master.  The  Pope,  so 
defied,  brought  out  his  thunders  ;  he  excom- 
municated Lutiier  ;  he  wrote  'again  to  the 
Elector,  entreating  him  not  to  soil  his  name 
and  lineage  by  becoming  a  protector  of  heretics; 


jg  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

and  he  required  him,  without  further  ceremony, 
to  render  up  the  criminal  to  justice. 

The  Elector's  power  was  limited.  As  yet, 
the  quarrel  was  simply  between  Luther  and  the 
Pope.  The  Elector  was  by  no  means  sure  that 
his  bold  subject  was  right — he  was  only  not 
satisfied  that  he  was  wrong — and  it  was  a 
serious  question  with  him  how  far  he  ought  to 
go.  The  monk  might  next  be  placed  under 
the  ban  of  the  empire  ;  and  if  he  persisted  in 
protecting  him  afterwards,  Saxony  might  have 
all  the  power  of  Germany  upon  it.  He  did  not 
venture  any  more  to  refuse  absolutely.  He 
temporized  and  delayed  ;  while  Luther  himself, 
probably  at  the  Elector's  instigation,  made 
overtures  for  peace  to  the  Pope.  Saving  his 
duty  to  Christ,  he  promised  to  be  for  the  future 
an  obedient  son  of  the  Church,  and  to  say  no 
more  about  indulgences  if  Tetzel  ceased  to 
defend  them. 

•My  being  such  a  small  creature,'  Luther 
said  afterwards, '  was  a  misfortune  for  the  Pope. 
He  despised  me  too  much  !  What,  he  thought, 
could  a  slave  like  me  do  to  him — to  him,  who 
was  the  greatest  man  in  all  the  world  ?  Had 
he  accepted  my  proposal,  he  would  have  extin- 
guished me.' 

But  the  infallible  Pope  conducted  himself 
like  a  proud,  irascible,  exceedingly  fallible 
mortal.  To  make  terms  with  the  town  preacher 
of  Wittenberg  was  too  preposterous. 

Just  then  the  imperial  throne  fell  vacant ; 
and  the  pretty  scandal  I  told  you  of,  followed 
at  the  choice  of  his  successor.  Frederick  of 
Saxony  might  have  been  elected  if  he  had  liked 
— and  it  would  have  been  better  for  the  world 
perhaps  if  Frederick  had  been  more  ambitious 
of  high  dignities — but  the  Saxon  Prince  did 
not  care  to  trouble  himself  with  the  imperial 
sceptre.  The  election  fell  on  Maximilian's 
grandson  Cliarles — grandson  also  of  Ferdinand 
the  Catholic — Sovereign  of  Spain  ;  Sovereign 
of  Burgundy  and  the  Low  Countries  ;  Sovereign 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  59 

of  Naples  and  Sicily  ;  Sovereign  beyond    the 
Allanlic,  of  the  New  Empire  of  the  Indies. 

No  fitter  man  could  have  been  found  to  do 
ihe  business  of  the  Pope.  With  the  empire  of 
Germany  added  to  his  inherited  dominions, 
who  could  resist  him  ? 

To  the  new  Emperor,  unless  the  Elector 
yielded,  Luther's  case  had  now  to  be  referred. 
The  Elector,  if  he  had  wished,  could  not 
interfere.  Germany  was  attentive,  but  motion- 
less. The  students,  the  artisans,  the  tradesmen, 
were  at  heart  with  the  Reformer;  and  their 
enthusiasm  could  not  be  wholly  repressed. 
The  press  grew  fertile  with  pamphlets;  and  it 
was  noticed  that  all  the  printers  and  compos- 
itors went  for  Luther.  The  Catholics  could 
not  get  their  books  into  type  without  sending 
them  to  France  or  the  Low  Countries. 

Yet  none  of  the  princes  except  the  Elector 
•had  as  yet  shown  him  favor.  The  bishops 
were  hostile  to  a  man.  The  nobles  had  given 
no  sign  ;  and  their  place  would  be  naturally  on 
the  side  of  authority.  They  had  no  love  for 
bishops — there  was  hope  in  that ;  and  they 
looked  with  no  favor  on  the  huge  estates  of 
the  religious  orders.  But  no  one  could  expect 
that  they  would  peril  their  lands  and  lives  for 
an  insignificant  monk. 

There  was  an  interval  of  two  years  before 
the  Emperor  was  at  leisure  to  take  up  the 
question.  The  time  was  spent  in  angry  alter- 
cation, boding  no  good  for  the  future. 

The  Pope  issued  a  second  bull  condemning 
Luther  and  his  works,  Luther  replied  by  burn- 
ning  the  bull  in  the  great  square  at  Wittenberg. 
At  length  in  April  152 1,  the  Diet  of  the 
Empire  assembled  at  Worms,  and  Luther  was 
called  to  defend  himself  in  the  presence  of 
Charles  the  Fifth. 

That  it  should  have  come  to  this  at  all,  in 
days  of  such  high-handed  authority,  was  suffi- 
ciently remarkable.  It  indicated  something 
growing  in  the  minds  of  men,  that  the  so-called 


6o  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

Church  was  not  to  carry  things  any  longer  in 
the  old  style.  Popes  and  bishops  might  order, 
but  the  laity  intended  for  the  future  to  have 
opinions  of  their  own  how  far  such  orders 
should  be  obeyed. 

The  Pope  expected  anyhow  that  the  Diet, 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  would  now  rid  him  of  his 
adversary.  The  Elector,  who  knew  the  eccles- 
iastical ways  of  handling  such  matters,  made  it 
a  condition  of  his  subject  appearing  that  he 
should  have  a  safe-conduct,  under  the  Emperor's 
hand  ;  that  Luther,  if  judgment  went  against 
him,  should  be  free  for  the  time  to  return  to 
the  place  from  which  he  had  come  ;  and  that 
he,  the  Elector,  should  determine  afterwards 
what  should  be  done  with  him. 

When  the  interests  of  the  Church  were  con- 
cerned, safe-conducts,  it  was  too  well  known, 
were  poor  security.  Pope  Clement  the  Seventh, 
a  little  after,  when  reproached  for  breaking  a- 
promise,  replied  with  a  smile,  '  The  Pope  has 
power  to  bind  and  to  loose.'  Good,  in  the 
eyes  of  ecclesiastical  authorities,  meant  what 
was  good  for  the  Church  ;  evilj  whatever  was 
bad  for  the  Church  ;  and  the  highest  moral 
obligation  became  sin  when  it  stood  in  St. 
Peter's  way. 

There  had  been  an  outburst  of  free  thought 
in  Bohemia  a  century  and  a  half  before.  Jolin 
Huss,  Luther's  forerunner,  came  with  a  safe- 
conduct  to  the  Council  of  Constance  ;  but  the 
bisliops  ruled  that  safe-conducts  could  not  pro- 
tect heretics.  They  burnt  John  Huss  for  all 
their  promises,  and  they  hoped  now  that  so 
good  a  Catholic  as  Charles  would  follow  so 
excellent  a  precedent.  Pope  Leo  wrote  him- 
self to  beg  that  Luther's  safe-conduct  should 
not  be  observed.  The  bishops  and  archbish- 
ops, when  Charles  consulted  them,  took  the 
same  view  as  the  Pope. 

'There  is  something  in  the  office  of  a 
bishop,'  Luther  said,  a  year  or  two  later,  '  which 
is  dreadfully  demoralizing.     Even  good   men 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  6 1 

change  their  natures  at  their  consecration ; 
Satan  enters  into  them  as  he  entered  into 
Judas,  as  soon  as  they  have  taken  the  sop.' 

It  was  most  seriously  lii<ely  that,  if  Luther 
trusted  himself  at  the  Diet  on  the  faith  of  his 
safe-conduct,  he  would  never  return  alive.  Ru- 
mors of  intended  treachery  were  so  strong, 
that  if  he  refused  to  go,  the  Elector  meant  to 
stand  by  him  at  any  cost.  Should  he  appear, 
or  not  appear  ?  It  was  for  himself  to  decide. 
If  he  stayed  away<  judgment  would  go  against 
him  by  default.  Charles  would  call  out  the 
forces  of  the  empire,  and  Saxony  would  be  in- 
vaded. 

Civil  war  would  follow,  with  insurrection  all 
over  Germany,  with  no  certain  prospect  except 
bloodshed  and  misery. 

Luther  was  not  a  man  to  expose  his  country 
to  peril  that  his  own  person  might  escape.  He 
had  provoked  the  storm  ;  and  if  blood  was  to 
be  shed,  his  blood  ought  at  least  to  be  the  first. 
He  went.  On  his  wa}-,  a  friend  came  to  warn 
him  again  that  foul  play  was  intended,  that  he 
was  condemned  already^  that  his  books  had 
been  burnt  by  the  hangman,  and  that  he  was  a 
dead  man  if  he  proceeded. 

Luther  trembled — he  owned  it — but  he  an- 
swered, 'Go  to  Worms!  I  will  go  if  there  are 
as  many  devils  in  Worms  as  there  are  tiles 
upon  the  roofs  of  the  houses/' 

The  roofs,  when  he  came  into  the  city,  were 
crowded,  not  with  devils,  but  with  the  inhab- 
itants, all  collecting  there  to  see  him  as  he 
passed.  A  nobleman  gave  him  shelter  for  the 
night ;  the  next  day  he  was  led  to  the  Town 
Hall. 

No  more  notable  spectacle  had  been  wit- 
nessed in  this  planet  for  many  a  century — not, 
perhaps,  since  a  greater  than  Luther  stood  be- 
fore the  Roman  Procurator. 

There  on  the  raised  dais  sat  the  sovereign  of 
half  the  world.  There  on  either  side  of  him 
stood  the  archbishops,  the  ministers  of  state, 


62  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

the  princes  of  the  empire,  gathered  together  to 
hear  and  judge  the  son  of  a  poor  miner,  who 
had  made  the  world  ring  with  his  name. 

The  body  of  the  hall  was  thronged  with 
knights  and  nobles — stern  hard  men  in  dull 
gleaming  armor.  Luther,  in  his  brown  frock, 
was  led  forward  between  their  ranks.  The 
looks  which  greeted  him  were  not  all  un- 
friendly. The  first  Article  of  a  German  credo 
was  belief  in  cojirage.  Germany  had  had  its 
feuds  in  times  past  with  Popes  of  Rome,  and 
they  were  not  without  pride  that  a  poor  coun- 
tryman of  theirs  should  have  taken  bv  the 
beard  the  great  Italian  priest.  They  had  set- 
tled among  themselves  that,  come  what  would, 
there  should  be  fair  play;  and  they  looked  on 
half  admiring,  and  half  in  scorn. 

As  Luther  passed  up  the  hall,  a  steel  baron 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  with  his  gauntlet. 

*  Pluck  up  thy  spirit,  little  monk,'  he  said  ; 
'  some  of  us  here  have  seen  warm  work  in  our 
time,  but,  by  my  troth,  nor  I  nor  any  knight  in 
this  company  ever  needed  a  stout  heart  more 
than  thou  needest  it  now.  If  thou  hast  faith 
in  these  doctrines  of  thine,  little  monk,  go  on, 
in  the  name  of  God.' 

'  Yes,  in  the  name  of  God,'  said  Luther, 
throwing  back  his  head,  '  in  the  name  of  God, 
forward ! ' 

As    at   Augsburg,    one    only   (juestion    was 
raised.     Luther   had    broken    the   laws  of  the- 
(Church.     He  had  taught  doctrines  which  the 
Pope  had  declared  to   be  false.     Would  he  or 
would  he  not  retract .? 

As  at  Augsburg,  he  replied  briefly  that  he 
would  retract  when  his  doctrines  were  not  de- 
clared to  be  false  merely,  but  were  proved  to 
be  false.  Then,  but  not  till  then.  That  was 
his  answer,  and  his  last  word. 

There,  as  you  understand,  the  heart  of  the 
matter  indeed  rested.  In  tliose  words  lay  the 
whole  meaning  of  the  Reformation.  Were  men 
to  go  on  forever  saying  that   this  and  that  was 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  63 

true,  because  the  Pope  affirmed  it  ?  Or  wore 
Pope's  decrees  thenceforward  to  be  tried  like 
the  words  of  olhcr  men — by  the  ordinary  laws 
of  evidence  ? 

It  required  no  great  intellect  to  understand 
that  a  Pope's  pardon,  which  you  could  buy  for 
five  shillings,  could  not  really  get  a  soul  out  of 
purgatory.  It  required  a  quality  much  rarer 
than  intellect  to  look  such  a  doctrine  in  the 
face — sanctioned  as  it  was  by  the  credulity  of 
ages,  and  backed  by  the  pomp  and  pageantry 
of  earthly  power — and  say  to  it  openly,  '  You 
are  a  lie.'  Cleverness  and  culture  could  have 
given  a  thousand  reasons — they  did  then  and 
they  do  now — why  an  indulgence  should  be  be- 
lieved in  ;  when  honesty  and  common  sense 
could  give  but  one  reason  for  thinking  other- 
wise. Cleverness  and  imposture  get  on  excel- 
lently well  together — imposture  and  veracity, 
never. 

Luther  looked  at  those  wares  of  Tetzel's, 
and  said,  '  Your  pardons  are  no  pardons  at  all 
— no  letters  of  credit  on  heaven,  but  flash  notes 
of  the  Bank  of  Humbug ;  and  you  know  it. 
They  did  know  it.  The  conscience  of  every 
man  in  Europe  answered  back,  that  what  Lu- 
ther said  was  true. 

Bravery,  honesty,  veracity,  these  were  the 
qualities  which  were  needed — which  were 
needed  then,  and  are  needed  alv/ays,  as  the 
root  of  all  real  greatness  in  man. 

The  first  missionaries  of  Christianity,  when 
they  came  among  the  heathen  nations,  and 
found  them  worshipping  idols,  did  not  care 
much  to  reason  that  an  image  which  man  had 
made  could  not  be  God.  The  priests  might 
have  been  a  match  for  them  in  reasoning. 
They  walked  up  to  the  idol  in  the  presence  of 
its  votaries.  They  threw  stones  at  it,  spat 
upon  it,  insulted  it.  '  See,  they  said,  '  I  do  this 
to  your  God.  If  he  is  God,  let  him  avenge 
himself.' 

It  was  a  simple  argument ;  always  effective  ; 


64  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

easy,  and  yet  most  difficult.  It  required  merely 
a  readiness  to  be  killed  upon  the  spot  by  tlie 
superstition  which  it  outraged. 

And  so,  and  only  so,  can  truth  make  its  way 
for  us  in  any  such  matters.  The  form  changes 
— the  thing  remains.  Superstition,  folly,  and 
cunning  will  go  on  to  the  end  of  time,  spinning 
their  poison  webs  around  the  consciences  of 
mankind.  Courage  and  veracity — these  qual- 
ties,  and  only  these,  avail   to  defeat  them. 

From  the  moment  that  Luther  left  the  Em- 
peror's presence  a  free  man  the  spell  of  Abso- 
lutism was  broken,  and  the  victory  of  the  Re- 
formation secured.  The  ban  of  the  Pope  had 
fallen  ;  the  secular  arm  had  been  called  to  in- 
terfere ;  the  machinery  of  authority  strained  as 
far  as  it  would  bear.  The  Emperor  himself 
was  an  unconscious  convert  to  the  higher 
creed.  The  Pope  had  urged  him  to  break  his 
word.  The  Pope  had  told  him  that  honor  was 
nothing,  and  morality  was  nothing,  where  the 
interests  of  orthodoxy  were  compromised.  The 
Emperor  had  refused  to  be  tempted  into  per- 
jury; and,  in  refusing,  had  admitted  that  there 
was  a  spiritual  power  upon  the  earth,  above  the 
Pope,  and  above  him. 

The  party  of  the  Church  felt  it  so.  A  plot 
was  formed  to  assassinate  Luther  on  his  return 
to  Saxon)'.  The  insulted  majesty  of  Rome 
could  be  vindicated  at  least  by  the  dagger. 

But  this,  too,  failed.  The  Elector  heard 
what  was  intended.  A  party  of  horse,  disguised 
as  banditti,  waylaid  the  Reformer  upon  the 
road,  and  carried  him  off  to  the  castle  of  Wart- 
burg,  where  he  remained  out  of  harm's  way  till 
the  general  rising  of  Germany  placed  him  be- 
yond the  reach  of  danger. 

At  Wartburg  for  the  present  evening  we  leave 
him. 

The  Emperor  Charles  and  Luther  never  met 
again.  The  monks  of  Yuste,  who  watched  on 
the  death-bed  of  Charles,  reported  that  at  the 
last   hour    he  repented  that  he   had   kept  his 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTIIEK.  65 

word,  and  reproached  himself  for  having  al- 
lowed the  arch-heretic  to  escape  from  his 
hands. 

It  is  possible  that,  when  the  candle  of  life 
was  burning  low,  and  spirit  and  flesh  were  fail- 
ing together,  and  the  air  of  the  sick  room  was 
thick  and  close  with  the  presence  of  the  angel 
of  death,  the  nobler  nature  of  the  P^mperor 
might  have  yielded  to  the  influences  which  were 
around  him.  His  confessor  might  have  thrust 
into  his  lips  the  words  which  he  so  wished  to 
hear. 

But  Charles  the  Fifth,  though  a  Catholic  al- 
ways, was  a  Catholic  of  the  old  grand  type,  to 
whom  creed  and  dogmas  were  but  the  robe  of 
a  regal  humanity.  Another  story  is  told  of 
Charles — an  authentic  story  this  one — which 
makes  me  think  that  the  monks  of  Yuste  mis- 
took or  maligned  him.  Six  and  twenty  years 
after  this  .scene  at  Worms,  when  the  then 
dawning  heresy  had  become  broad  day ;  when 
Luther  had  gone  to  his  rest — and  there  had 
gathered  about  his  name  the  hate  which  mean 
men  feel  for  an  enemy  who  has  proved  too 
strong  for  them — a  passing  vicissitude  in  the 
struggle  brought  the  Emperor  at  the  head  of 
his  army  to  Wittenberg. 

The  vengeance  which  the  monks  could  not 
inflict  upon  him  in  life,  they  proposed  to  wreak 
upon  his  bones. 

The  Emperor  desired  to  be  conducted  to 
Luther's  tomb  ;  and  as  he  stood  gazing  at  it, 
full  of  many  thoughts,  some  one  suggested  that 
the  body  should  be  taken  up  and  burnt  at  the 
stake  in  the  Market-place. 

There  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  proposal  ; 
it  was  the  common  practice  of  the  Catholic 
Church  with  the  remains  of  heretics,  who  were 
held  unworthy  to  be  left  in  repose  in  hallowed 
ground.  There  was  scarcely,  perha^^s,  another 
Catholic  prince  who  would  have  hesitated  to 
comply.  But  Charles  was  one  of  nature's 
gentlemen  ;  he  answered,  '  I  war  not  with  the 
dead.' 


66  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


III. 

We  have  now  entered  upon  the  movement 
which  broke  the  power  of  the  Papacv — which 
swept  Germany,  Sweden,  Denmark,  Holland, 
England,  Scotland,  into  the  stream  of  revol- 
ution, and  gave  a  new  direction  to  the  spiritual 
history  of  mankind. 

You  would  not  thank  me  if  I  were  to  take 
you  out  into  that  troubled  ocean.  I  confine 
myself,  and  I  wish  you  to  confine  your  attention, 
to  the  two  kinds  of  men  who  appear  as  leaders 
in  times  of  change — of  whom  Erasmus  and 
Luther  are  respectiveh''  the  types. 

f)n  one  side  there  are  the  larc:e-minded 
latitudinarian  philosophers — men  who  have  no 
confidence  in  the  people — who  have  no  passion- 
ate convictions  ^moderate  men,  tolerant  men, 
who  trust  to  education,  to  general  progress  in 
knowledge  and  civilization,  to  forbearance,  to 
endurance,  to  tinier-men  who  believe  that  all 
wholesome  reforms  proceed  downwards  from 
the  educated  to  the  multitudes ;  who  regard 
with  contempt,  qualified  by  terror,  appeals  to 
the  popular  conscience  or  to  popular  intel- 
ligence. 

Opposite  to  these  are  the  men  of  faith — and 
by  faith  I  do  not  mean  belief  in  dogmas,  but 
belief  in  goodness,  belief  in  justice,  in  right- 
eousness, above  all,  belief  in  truth.  Men  of 
faith  consider  conscience  of  more  importance 
than  knowledgeH-or  rather  as  a  first  condition 
— without  which'allthe  knowledge  in  the  world 
is  no  use  to  a  man — if  he  wishes  to  be  indeed 
a  man  in  any  high  and  noble  sense  of  the  word. 
They  are  not  contented  with  looking  for  what 
may  be  useful  or  pleasant  to  themselves;  they 
look  by  quite  other  methods  for  what  is  honor- 
able— for  what  is  good — for  what  is  just.  They 
believe  that  if  they  can  find  out  that,  then  at 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  67 

all  hazards,  and  in  spite  of  all  present  con- 
sequences to  themselves,  that  is  to  be  preferred. 
If,  individually  and  to  themselves,  no  visible 
good  ever  came  from  it,  in  this  world  or  in  any- 
other,  still  they  would  say,  "  Let  us  do  that  and 
nothing  else.  Life  will  be  of  no  value  to  us  if 
we  are  to  use  it  only  for  our  own  gratification.' 

The  soldier  before  a  battle  knows  that  if  he 
shirks  and  pretends  to  be  ill,  he  may  escape 
danger  and  make  sure  of  his  life.  There  are 
very  few  men,  indeed,  if  it  comes  to  that,  who 
would  not  sooner  die  ten  times  over  than  so 
dishonor  themselves.  Men  of  high  moral 
nature  carry  out  the  same  principle  into  the 
details  of  their  daily  lite  ;  they  do  not  care  to 
live  unless  they  may  live  nobly.  Like  my  uncle 
Toby,  they  have  but  one  fear — the  fear  of 
doing  a  wrong  thing. 

I  call  this  faith,  because  there  is  no  proof, 
such  as  will  satisfy  the  scientific  inquirer,  that 
there  is  any  such  thing  as  moral  truth — any 
such  thing  as  absolute  right  and  wrong  at  all. 
As  the  Scripture  says,  '  Verily,  thou  art  a  God 
that  hidest  thyself.'  The  forces  of  nature  pay 
no  respect  to  what  we  call  good  and  evil. 
Prosperity  does  not  uniformly  follow  virtue  ; 
nor  are  defeat  and  failure  necessary  con- 
sequences of  vice. 

Certain  virtues — temperance,  industry,  and 
things  within  reasonable  limits — command 
their  reward.  Sensuality,  idleness,  and  waste 
commonly  lead  to  ruin. 

But  prosperity  is  consistent  with  intense 
worldliness,  intense  selfishness,  intense  hard- 
ness of  heart ;  while  the  grander  features  of 
human  character — self-sacrifice,  disregard  of 
pleasure,  patriotism,  love  of  knowledge,  de- 
votion to  any  great  and  good  cause — these 
have  no  tendency  to  bring  men  what  is  called 
fortune.  They  do  not  even  necessarily  promote 
their  happiness  ;  for  do  what  they  will  in  this 
way,  the  horizon  of  what  thev  desire  to  do  per- 
petually  flies  before  them.     High  hopes   and 


68  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

enthusiasms  are  generally  disappointed  in 
results  ;  and  the  wrongs,  the  cruellies,  the 
wretchednesses  of  all  kinds  which  for  ever  pre- 
vail among  mankind — the  shortcomings  in 
himself  of  which  he  becomes  more  conscious 
as  he  becomes  really  better — these  things,  vou 
may  be  sure,  will  prevent  a  noble-minded  man 
from  ever  being  particularly  happy. 

If  you  see  a  man  happy,  as  the  world  goes 
— contented  with  himself  and  contented  with 
what  is  round  him — such  a  man  may  be,  and 
probably  is,  decent  and  respectable  ;  but  the 
highest  is  not  in  him,  and  the  highest  will  not 
come  out  of  him. 

Judging  merely  by  outward  phenomena — 
judging  merely  by  what  we  call  reason — you 
cannot  prove  that  there  is  any  moral  govern- 
ment in  the  world  at  all,  except  what  men,  for 
their  own  convenience,  introduce  into  it.  Right 
and  wrong  resolve  themselves  into  principles 
of  utility  and  social  convenience.  Enlightened 
selfishness  prescribes  a  decent  rule  of  conduct 
for  common  purposes ;  and  virtue,  by  a  large 
school  of  philosophy,  is  completely  resolved 
into  that. 

True,  when  nations  go  on  long  on  the  selfish 
hypothesis,  they  are  apt  to  find  at  last  that  they 
have  been  mistaken.  They  find  it  in  bank- 
ruptcy of  honor  and  character — in  social  wreck 
and  dissolution.  All  lies  in  serious  matters 
end  at  last,  as  Carlyle  says,  in  broken  heads. 
That  is  the  final  issue  which  they  are  sure  to 
come  to  in  the  long  run.  The  Maker  of  the 
world  does  not  permit  a  society  to  continue 
which  forgets  or  denies  the  nobler  principles 
of  action.  But  the  end  is  often  long  in  coming ; 
and  these  nobler  principles  are  meanwhile  7iot 
provided  for  us   by  the   inductive  philosophy. 

Patriotism,  for  instance,  of  which  we  used 
to  think  something — a  readiness  to  devote  our 
energies  while  we  live,  to  devote  our  lives,  if 
nothing  else  will  serve,  to  what  we  call  our 
country — what  are  we  to  say  of  that? 


ERASMUS  AN  J)  LUTHER.  Cx) 

I  once  asked  a  distinguished  philosopher 
what  he  thought  of  patriotism.  He  said  he 
thought  it  was  a  compound  of  vanity  and  super- 
stition ;  a  bad  kind  of  prejudice,  which  would 
die  out  with  the  growth  of  reason.  My  friend 
believed  in  the  progress  of  humanity — he  could 
not  narrow  his  sympathies  to  so  small  a  thing  as 
his  own  country.  I  could  but  say  to  myself, 
'Thank  God,  then,  we  are  not  yet  a  nation  of 
philosophers.'' 

A  man  who  takes  up  with  philosophy  like 
that,  may  write  fine  books,  and  review  articles 
and  such  like,  but  at  the  bottom  of  him  he  is  a 
poor  caitiff,  and  there  is  no  more  to  be  said 
about  him. 

So  when  the  air  is  heavy  with  imposture, 
and  men  live  onlv  to  make  monev,  and  the 
service  of  God  is  become  a  thing  of  words  and 
ceremonies,  and  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
bought  and  sold,  and  all  that  is  higli  and  pure 
in  man  is  smothered  by  corruption — fire  of  the 
same  kind  bursts  out  in  higher  natures  with  a 
fierceness  which  cannot  be  controlled  ;  and, 
confident  in  truth  and  right,  they  call  fearlessly 
on  the  seven  thousand  in  Israel  who  have  not 
bowed  the  knee  to  Baal  to  rise  and  stand  by 
them. 

They  do  not  ask  whether  those  whom  they 
address  have  wide  knowledge  of  history,  or 
science  or  philosophy ;  they  ask  rather  that 
thev  shall  be  honest,  that  thev  shall  be  brave, 
that  they  shall  be  true  to  the  common  light 
which  God  has  given  to  all  His  children. 
They  know  well  that  conscience  is  no  excep- 
tional privilege  of  the  great  or  the  cultivated, 
Uiat  to  be  generous  and  unselfish  is  no  pre- 
rogative of  rank  or  intellect. 

Erasmus  considered  that,  for  the  vulgar,  a 
lie  might  be  as  good  as  truth,  and  often  better. 
A  lie,  ascertained  to  be  a  lie,  to  Luther  was 
ilcadly  poison — poison  to  all  who  meddled  with. 

In  his  own  genuine  greatness,  he  was  too 
humble  to  draw  insolent  distinctions  in  his  own 


yo  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

favor;  or  to  believe  that  any  one  class  on 
earth  is  of  more  importance  than  another  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Great  Maker  of  them  all. 

Well,  then  you  know  what  I  mean  by  faith, 
and  what  I  mean  bv  intellect.  It  was  not  that 
Luther  was  without  intelllect.  He  was  less 
subtle,  less  learned,  than  Erasmus ;  but  in 
mother  wit,  in  elasticity,  in  force,  and  imagin- 
ative power,  he  was  as  able  a  man  as  ever  lived. 
Luther  created  the  German  language  as  an 
instrument  of  literature.  His  translation  of 
the  Bible  is  at  rich  and  grand  as  our  own,  and 
his  table  talk  as  full  of  matter  as  Shakespeare's 
plays. 

Again  ;  you  will  mistake  me  if  you  think  I 
represent  Erasmus  as  a  man  without  con- 
science, or  belief  in  God  and  goodness.  But  in 
Luther  that  belief  was  a  certainty  ;  in  Erasmus 
it  was  only  a  high  probability — and  the  differ- 
ence between  the  two  is  not  merely  great,  it  is 
infinite.  In  Luther,  it  was  the  root ;  in  Eras- 
mus, it  was  the  flower.  In  Luther,  it  was  the 
first  principle  of  life  ;  in  Erasmus,  it  was  an 
inference  which  might  be  taken  away,  and  yet 
leave  the  world  a  very  tolerable  and  habitable 
place  after  all. 

You  see  the  contrast  in  their  early  lives. 
You  see  Erasmus — light,  bright,  sarcastic,  fond 
of  pleasure,  fond  of  society,  fond  of  wine  and 
kisses,  and  intellectual  talk  and  polished  com- 
pany. You  see  Luther  throwing  himself  into 
the  cloister,  that  he  might  subdue  his  will  to 
the  will  of  God  ;  prostrate  in  prayer,  in  nights 
of  agony,  and  distracting  his  easy-going  con- 
fessor with  the  exaggerated  scruples  of  his 
conscience. 

You  see  it  in  the  effects  of  their  teaching. 
You  see  P'^rasmus  addressing  himself  with 
persuasive  eloquence  to  kings,  and  popes,  and 
prelates  ;  and  for  answer,  you  see  Pope  Leo 
sending  Te'izel  over  Germany  with  his  carriage 
load  of  indulgences.  You  see  Erasmus's  dear- 
est   friend,    our    own    gifted   admirable     Sir 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHEK.  71 

Thomas  More,  taking  his  seat  beside  the 
bishops  and  sending  poor  Protestant  artisans 
to  the  stake. 

You  see  Luther,  on  llie  other  side,  standing 
out  before  tiie  world,  one  lone  man,  with  all 
authority  against  him — taking  lies  by  the  tin  oat, 
and  Europe  thrilling  at  his  words,  and  saying 
after  him,  'The  reign  of  Imposture  shall  end.' 

Let  us  follow  the  course  of  Erasmus  after 
the  tempest  had  broken. 

He  knew  Luther  to  be  right.  Luther  had 
but  said  what  Erasmus  liad  been  all  his  life 
convinced  of,  and  Luther  looked  to  see  him 
come  forward  and  take  his  place  at  his  side. 
Had  Erasmus  done  so,  the  course  of  things 
would  have  been  far  happier  and  better.  His 
prodigious  reputation  would  have  given  the 
Reformers  the  influence  with  the  educated 
which  they  had  won  for  themselves  with  the 
multitude,  and  the  Pope  would  have  been  left 
without  a  friend  to  the  north  of  the  Alps. 
But  there  would  have  been  some  danger — 
danger  to  the  leaders,  if  certainty  of  triumph 
to  the  cause — and  Erasmus  had  no  gift  for 
martyrdom. 

His  first  impulse  was  generous.  He  en- 
couraged the  Elector,  as  w-e  have  seen,  to  pro- 
tect Luther  from  the  Pope.  '  I  looked  on 
Luther,'  he  wrote  to  Duke  George  of  Saxe, 
'  as  a  necessary  evil  in  the  corruption  of  the 
Church  ;  a  medicine,  bitter  and  drastic,  from 
which  sounder  health  would  follow.' 

And  again,  more  boldly  :  '  Luther  has  taken 
up  the  cause  of  honesty  and  good  sense  against 
abominations  which  are  no  longer  tolerable. 
His  enemies  are  men  under  whose  worthless- 
ness  the  Christian  world  has  groaned  too 
long.' 

So  to  the  heads  of  the  Church  he  wrote, 
pressing  them  to  be  moderate  and  careful  : — 

'  I  neither  approve  Luther  nor  condemn 
him,'  he  said  to  the  Archljishop  of  Mayence  ; 
'if  he  is  innocent,  he  ought  not  to  be  oppress- 


72 


HISTORICAL  ESS  A  YS. 


ed  by  the  factions  of  the  wicked ;  if  he  is  in 
error,  he  should  be  answered,  not  destroyed. 
The  theologians  ' — observe  how  true  they  re- 
main to  the  universal  type  in  all  times  and  in 
all  countries — '  the  theologians  do  not  try  to 
answer  him.  They  do  but  raise  an  insane  and 
senseless  clamor,  and  shriek  and  curse. 
Heresy,  heretic,  heresiarch,  schismatic.  Anti- 
christ— these  are  the  words  which  are  in  the 
mouths  of  all  of  them  ;  and,  of  course,  they 
condemn  without  reading.  I  warned  them 
what  they  were  doing.  I  told  them  to  scream 
less,  and  to  think  more.  Luther's  life  they 
admit  to  be  innocent  and  blameless.  Such  a 
tragedy  I  never  saw.  The  most  humane  men 
are  thirsting  for  his  blood,  and  they  would 
rather  kill  him  than  mend  him.  The  Domini- 
cans are  the  worst,  and  are  more  knaves  than 
fools.  In  old  times,  even  a  heretic  was  quietly 
listened  to.  If  he  recanted,  he  was  absolved  ; 
if  he  persisted,  he  was  at  worst  excommuni- 
cated. Now  they  will  have  nothing  but  blood. 
Not  to  agree  with  them  is  heresy.  To  know 
Greek  is  heresy.  To  speak  good  Latin  is 
heresy.  Whatever  they  do  not  understand  is 
heresy.  Learning,  they  pretend,  has  given 
birth  to  Luther,  though  Luther  has  but  little  of 
it.  Luther  thinks  more  of  the  Gospel  than  of 
scholastic  divinity,  and  that  is  his  crime.  This 
is  plain  at  least,  that  the  best  men  everywhere 
are  those  who  are  least  offended  with  him.' 

Even  to  Pope  Leo,  in  the  midst  of  his  fury, 
Erasmus  wrote  bravely ;  separating  himself 
from  Luther,  yet  deprecating  violence.  '  Noth- 
ing,' he  said,  '  would  so  recommend  the  new 
teaching  as  the  howling  of  fools  : '  while  to  a 
member  of  Charles's  council  he  insisted  that 
'  severity  had  been  often  tried  in  such  cases 
and  had  always  failed  ;  unless  Luther  was  en- 
countered calmly  and  reasonably,  a  tremendous 
convulsion  was  inevitable.' 

Wisely  said  all  this,  but  it  ])resumed  that 
those  whom  he  was  addressing  were  reasonable 


ERASMUS  AND  LU'lIIRR. 


73 


men  :  and  high  officials,  touched  in  their  pride, 
are  a  class  of  persons  of  whom  Solomon  may 
have  been  thinking  when  he  said,  '  Let  a  bear 
robbed  of  her  whelps  meet  a  man  ralher  than 
a  fool  in  his  folly.' 

So  to  Luiher,  so  to  the  people,  Erasmus 
preached  moderation.  It  was  like  preaching 
to  the  winds  in  a  hurricane.  The  typhoon  it- 
self is  not  wilder  than  human  creatures  when 
once  their  passions  are  stirred.  You  cannot 
check  them  ;  but,  if  you  are  brave,  you  can 
guide  them  wisely.  And  this,  Erasmus  had 
not  the  heart  to  do. 

He  said  at  the  beginning,  '  I  will  not  coun- 
tenance revolt  against  authority.  A  bad 
government  is  better  than  none.'  But  he  said 
at  the  same  time,  '  You  bishops,  cease  to  be 
corrupt :  you  popes  and  cardinals,  reform  your 
wicked  courts  :  you  monks,  leave  your  scandal- 
ous lives,  and  obey  the  rules  of  your  order,  so 
you  may  recover  the  respect  of  mankind,  and 
be  obeyed  and  loved  as  before.' 

When  he  found  that  the  case  was  desperate  ; 
that  his  exhortations  were  but  words  addressed 
to  the  winds  ;  that  corruption  had  tainted  the 
blood  ;  that  there  was  no  hope  except  in  revo- 
lution— as,  indeed,  in  his  heart  he  knew  from 
the  first  that  there  was  none — then  his  place 
ought  to  have  been  with  Luther. 

But  Erasmus,  as  the  tempest  rose,  could  but 
stand  still  in  feeble  uncertainty.  The  respon- 
sibilities of  his  reputation  weighed  him  down. 

The  Lutherans  said,  '  You  believe  as  we  do.' 
The  Catholics  said  'You  are  a  Lutheran  at 
heart;  if  you  are  not,  prove  it  by  attacking 
Luther.' 

He  grew  impatient.  He  told  lies.  He 
said  he  had  not  read  Luther's  books,  and  had 
no  time  to  read  them.  What  was  he,  he  said, 
that  he  should  meddle  in  such  a  quarrel  ?  He 
was  the  vine  and  the  fig  tree  of  the  book  of 
Judges.  The  trees  said  to  them,  Rule  over  us. 
The  vine  and  the  fig  tree  answered,  they  would 


74 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


not  leave  their  sweetness  for  such  a  thankless 
office.  '  I  am  a  poor  actor,'  he  said  ;  '  I  per- 
fer  to  be  a  spectator  of  the  display.' 

But  he  was  sore  at  lieart,  and  bitter  with  dis- 
appointment. All  had  been  going  on  so 
smoothly — literature  was  revivins;,  art  and 
science  were  spreading,  the  mind  of  the  world 
was  being  reformed  in  the  best  sense  by  the 
classics  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  now  an 
apple  of  discord  had  been  flung  out  into  Eu- 
rope. • 

The  monks  who  had  fought  against  enlight- 
enment could  point  to  the  confusion  as  a  fulfil- 
ment of  their  prophecies  ;  and  he,  and  all  that 
he  had  done,  was  brought  to  disrepute. 

To  protect  himself  from  the  Dominicans,  he 
was  forced  to  pretend  to  an  orthodoxy  which 
he  did  not  possess.  Were  all  true  which 
Luther  had  written,  he  pretended  that  it  ought 
not  to  haye  been  said,  or  should  have  been  ad- 
dressed in  a  learned  language  to  the  refined 
and  educated. 

He  doubted  whether  it  was  not  better  on  the 
whole  to  teach  the  people  lies  for  their  good, 
when  truth  was  beyond  their  comprehension. 
Yet  he  could  not  for  all  that  wish  the  Church 
to  be  successful. 

'  I  fear  for  that  miserable  Luther,'  he  said, 
'  the  popes  and  princes  are  furious  with  him. 
His  own  destruction  would  be  no  great  matter, 
but  if  the  monks  triumph  there  will  be  no 
bearing  them.  They  will  never  rest  till  they 
have  rooted  learning  out  of  the  land.  The 
Pope  expects  vie  to  write  against  Luther.  The 
orthodox,  it  appears,  can  call  him  names — call 
him  blockhead,  fool,  heretic,  toadstool,  schis- 
matic, and  Antichrist — but  they  must  come  to 
me  to  answer  his  arguments.' 

'Oh  !  that  this  had  never  been,'  he  wrote  to 
our  own  yVrchbishop  Warham.  'Now  there  is 
no  hope  for  any  good.  It  is  all  over  with  quiet 
learning,  thought,  piety  and  progress  ;  violence 
is  on  one  side  and  folly  on  the  other ;  and  they 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER. 


75 


accuse  me  of  having  caused  it  all.  If  I  joined 
Luther  1  could  only  perish  with  him,  and  I  do 
not  mean  to  run  my  neck  into  a  halter.  Popes 
and  emperors  must  decide  matters.  I  will  ac- 
cept what  is  good,  and  do  as  I  can  with  the 
rest.  Peace  on  any  terms  is  better  than  the 
justest  war.' 

Erasmus  itever  stooped  to  real  baseness.  He 
was  too  clever,  too  genuine — he  had  too  great 
a  contempt  for  worldly  greatness.  They  offer- 
ed him  a  bishopric  if  he  would  attack  Luther. 
He  only  laughed  at  them.  What  was  a  bishop- 
ric to  him.''  He  preferred  a  quiet  life  among 
his  books  at  Louvaine. 

But  there  was  no  more  quiet  for  Erasmus  at 
Louvaine  pr  anywhere.  Here  is  a  scene  be- 
tween him  and  the  Prior  of  the  Dominicans  in 
the  presence  of  the  Rector  of  the  University. 

TRe  Dominican  had  preached  at  Erasmus 
in  the  University  pulpit.  Erasmus  complained 
to  the  Rector,  and  the  Rector  invited  the 
Dominican  to  defend  himself,  Erasmus  tells 
the  story. 

'  I  sat  on  one  side  and  the  monk  on  the 
other,  the  Rector  between  us  to  prevent  our 
scratching. 

'  The  monk  asked  what  the  matter  was,  and 
said  he  had  done  no  harm. 

'  I  said  he  had  told  lies  of  me,  and  that  was 
harm. 

'  It  was  after  dinner.  The  holy  man  was 
flushed.     He  turned  purple. 

'  "  Why  do  you  abuse  monks  in  your  books  ?" 
he  said. 

'  "  I  spoke  of  your  order,"  I  answered.  "  I 
did  not  mention  you.  You  denounced  me  by 
name  as  a  friend  of  Luther." 

'  He  raged  like  a  madman.  "  You  are  the 
cause  of  all  this  trouble,"  he  said  ;  "  you  are  a 
chameleon,  you  can  twist  everything." 

'"You  see  what  a  fellow  he  is,"  said  I,  turn- 
ing to  the   Rector.     "  If  it   comes   to  calling 


76  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

names,  why  I  can  do  that  too ;  but  let  us  be 
reasonable." 

'  He  still  roared  and  cursed  ;  he  vowed  he 
would  never  rest  until  he  had  destroyed 
Luiher, 

'  .1  said  he  might  curse  Luther  till  he  burst 
himself  if  he  pleased.  I  complained  of  his 
cursing  me, 

'  He  answered,  that  if  I  did  not  agree  with 
Luther,  I  ought  to  say  so,  and  write  against 
him. 

'  "  Why  should  I  .>  "  urged  L  "  The  quarrel 
is  none  of  mine.  Why  should  I  irritate  Luther 
against  me  when  he  has  horns  and  knows  how 
to  use  them  .''  " 

*  "  Well,  then,"  said  he,  "  if  you  will  not 
write,  at  least  you  can  say  that  we  Dominicans 
have  had  the  best  of  the  argument." 

'  "  How  can  I  do  that }  "  replied  L  "  You 
have  burnt  his  books,  but  I  never  heard  that 
you  had  answered  them,"    . 

'  He  almost  spat  upon  me,  I  understand 
that  there  is  to  be  a  form  of  prayer  for  the 
conversion  of  Erasmus  and  Luther,' 

But  Erasmus  was  not  to  escape  so  easily. 
Adrian  the  Sixth,  w-ho  succeeded  Leo,  was  his 
old  school-fellow,  and  implored  his  assistance 
in  terms  which  made  refusal  impossible. 
Adrian  wanted  Erasmus  to  come  to  him  to 
Rome.  He  was  too  wary  to  walk  into  the 
wolf's  den.  But  Adrian  required  him  to  write, 
and  reluctantly  he  felt  that  he  must  comply. 

What  was  he  to  say  ? 

'  If  his  Holiness  will  set  about  reform  in 
good  earnest,'  he  wrote  to  the  Pope's  secre- 
tary, '  and  if  he  will  not  be  too  hard  on  Luther, 
I  may,  perhaps,  do  good ;  but  what  Luther 
writes  of  the  tyranny,  the  corruption,  the  cov- 
etness  of  Roman  court,  would,  my  friend,  that 
it  was  not  true.' 

To  Adrian  himself,  Erasmus  addressed  a 
letter  really  remarkable. 

'  I  cannot  go  to  your  Holiness,'  he  said, '  King 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  77 

Calculus  will  not  let  me.  I  have  dreadful 
health,  which  this  tornado  has  not  improved. 
I,  who  was  the  favorite  of  everybody,  am  now 
cursed  by  everybody — at  Louvaine  by  the 
monks  ;  in  Germany  by  the  Lutherans.  I  have 
fallen  into  trouble  in  my  old  age,  like  a  mouse 
into  a  pot  of  pitch.  You  say,  Come  to  Rome  ; 
you  might  as  well  say  to  the  crab.  Fly.  The 
crab  says,  Give  me  wings  ;  I  say.  Give  me  back 
my  health  and  my  youth.  If  I  write  calmly 
against  Luther  I  shall  be  called  lukewarm ;  if 
I  write  as  he  does,  I  shall  stir  a  hornets'  nest. 
People  think  he  can  be  put  down  by  force. 
The  more  force  you  try,  the  stronger  he  will 
grow.  Such  disorders  cannot  be  cured  in  that 
way.  The  WicklifTites  in  England  were  put 
down,  but  the  fire  smouldered. 

'  If  you  mean  to  use  violence  you  have  no 
need  of  me  ;  but  mark  this — if  monks  and 
theologians  think  only  of  themselves,  no  good 
wi',1  come  of  it.  Look  rather  into  the  causes 
ot  all  this  confusion,  and  apply  your  remedies 
vihere.  Send  for  the  best  and  wisest  men  from 
all  parts  of  Christendom  and  take  their  ad- 
vice.' 

Tell  a  crab  to  fly.  Tell  a  pope  to  be  rea- 
sonable. You  must  relieve  him  of  his  infalli- 
bility if  you  want  him  to  act  like  a  sensible  man. 
Adrian  could  undertake  no  reforms,  and  still 
besought  Erasmus  to  take  arms  for  him. 

Erasmus  determined  to  gratify  Adrian  with 
least  danger  to  himself  and  least  injury  to 
Luther. 

'I  remember  Uzzah,  and  am  afraid,'  he  said, 
in  his  quizzing  way  ;  '  it  is  not  every  one  who 
is  allowed  to  uphold  the  ark.  Many  a  wise 
man  has  attacked  Luther,  and  what  has  been 
effected .''  The  Tope  curses,  the  Emperor 
threatens ;  there  are  prisons,  confiscations, 
faggots ;  and  all   is  vain.     What  can    a  poor 

pigmy  like  me  do  .'' 

******* 

*  The  world  has  been  besotted  with  ceremo- 


78  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

nies.  Miserable  monks  have  ruled  all,  entang- 
ling men's  consciences  for  their  own  benefit. 
Dogma  has  been  heaped  on  dogma.  The 
bishops  have  been  tyrants,  the  Pope's  commis- 
saries have  been  rascals.  Luther  has  been  an 
instrument  of  God's  displeasure,  like  Pharaoh 
or  Nebuchadnezzar,  or  the  Caesars,  and  I  shall 
not  attack  him  on  such  grounds  as  these.' 

Erasmus  was  too  acute  to  defend  against 
Luther  the  weak  points  of  a  bad  cause.  He 
would  not  declare  for  him — but  we  would  not 
go  over  to  his  enemies.  Yet,  unless  he  quar- 
relled with  Adrian,  he  could  not  be  absolutely 
silent ;  so  he  chose  a  subject  to  write  ujxin  on 
which  all  schools  of  theology,  Catholic  or  Prot- 
estant— all  philosophers,  all  thinkers  of  what- 
ever kind,  have  been  divided  from  the  begin- 
ning of  time  :  fate  and  free  will,  predestination 
and  the  liberty  of  man — a  problem  which  has 
no  solution — which  may  be  argued  even  from 
eternity  to  eternity. 

The  reason  of  the  selection  was  obvious. 
Erasmus  wished  to  please  the  Pope  and  not 
exasperate  Luther.  Of  course  he  pleased 
neither,  and  offended  both. 

Luther,  who  did  not  comprehend  his  motive, 
was  needlessly  angry.  Adrian  and  the  monks 
were  openly  contemptuous.  Sick  of  them  and 
their  quarrels,  he  grew  weary  of  the  world,  and 
began  to  wish  to  be  well  out  of  it. 

It  is  characteristic  of  Erasmus  that,  like 
many  highly-gifted  men,  but  unlike  all  theo- 
logians, he  expressed  a  hope  for  sudden  death, 
and  declared  it  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  bless- 
ings which  a  human  creature  can  receive. 

I)o  not  suppose  that  he  broke  down  or 
showed  the  white  feather  to  fortune's  buffets. 
'J'lirough  all  storms  he  stuck  bravely  to  his  own 
))ropcr  work;  editing  classics,  editing  the  Fa- 
thers, writing  paraphrases — still  doing  for 
pAiropc  what  no  other  man  could  have  done. 

The  Dominicans  hunted  him  away  from 
Louvaine.     There   was   no   living  for   him  in 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER. 


79 


Germany  for  the  Protestants.  He  suffered 
dreadfully  from  the  stone,  too,  and  in  all  ways 
had  a  cruel  time  of  it.  Yet  he  continued,  for 
all  that,  to  make  life  endurable. 

He  moved  about  in  Switzerland  and  on  the 
Upper  Rhine.  The  lakes,  the  mountains,  the 
waterfalls,  the  villas  on  the  hill  slopes,  de- 
lighted Erasmus  when  few  people  else  cared 
for  such  things.  He  was  particular  about  his 
wine.  The  vintage  of  Burgundy  was  as  new 
blood  in  his  veins,  and  quickened  his  pen  into 
brightness  and  life. 

The  German  wines  he  liked  worst — for  this 
point  among  others,  which  is  curious  to  observe 
in  those  days.  The  great  capitalist  wine- 
growers, anti-Reformers  all  of  them,  were 
people  without  conscience  and  humanity,  and 
adulterated  their  liquors.  Of  course  they  did. 
They  believed  in  nothing  but  money,  and  this 
was  the  way  to  make  money* 

'  The  water  they  mix  with  the  wine,*  Erasmus 
says,  '  is  the  least  part  of  the  mischief.  They 
put  in  lime,  and  alum,  and  resin,  and  sulphur, 
and  salt — and  then  they  say  it  is  good  enough 
for  heretics.' 

Observe  the  practical  issue  of  religious  cor- 
ruption. Show  me  a  people  where  trade  is  dis- 
honest, and  I  will  show  you  a  people  where  re- 
ligion is  a  sham. 

'  We  hang  men  that  steal  monev.'  Erasmus 
exclaimed,  writing  doubtless  with  the  remem- 
brance of  a  stomach-ache.  '  These  wretches 
steal  our  money  and  our  lives  too,  and  get  off 
scot  free.' 

He  settled  at  last  at  Basle,  which  the  storm 
had  not  yet  reached,  and  tried  to  bury  himself 
among  his  books.  The  shrieks  of  the  conflict, 
however,  still  troubled  his  ears.  He  heard  his 
own  name  still  cursed,  and  he  could  not  bear 
it  or  sit  quiet  under  it. 

His  correspondence  continued  enormous. 
The  high  powers  still  appealed  to  him  for  ad- 
vice and  help  :  of   open   meddling  he    would 


go  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

have  no  more  ;  he  did  not  care,  he  said,  to 
make  a  post  of  himself  for  every  dog  of  a 
theologian  to  defile.  Advice,  however,  he  con- 
tinued to  give  in  the  old  style. 

'  Put  down  the  preachers  on  both  sides.  Fill 
the  pulpits  with  men  who  will  kick  contro- 
versy into  the  kennel,  and  preach  piety  and 
good  manners.  Teach  nothing  in  the  schools 
but  what  bears  upon  life  and  duty.  Punish 
those  who  break  the  peace,  and  punish  no  one 
else ;  and  wherever  the  new  opinions  have 
taken  root,  allow  liberty  of  conscience.' 

Perfection  of  wisdom  ;  but  a  wisdom  which, 
unfortunately,  was  three  centuries  at  least  out 
of  date,  which  even  now  we  have  not  grown 
big  enough  to  profit  by.  The  Catholic  princes 
and  bishops  were  at  work  with  fire  and  faggot. 
The  Protestants  were  pulling  down  monas- 
teries, and  turning  the  monks  and  nuns  out 
into  the  world.  The  Catholics  declared  that 
Erasmus  was  as  much  to  blame  as  Luther.  The 
Protestants  held  him  responsible  for  the  per- 
secutions, and  insisted,  not  without  reason,  that 
if  Erasmus  had  been  true  to  his  conscience, 
the  whole  Catholic  Church  must  have  accepted 
the  Reformation. 

He  suffered  bitterly  under  these  attacks 
upon  him.  He  loved  quiet — and  his  ears  were 
deafened  with  clamor.  He  liked  popularity 
— and  he  was  the  best  abused  person  in 
Europe.  Others  who  suffered  in  the  same  way 
he  could  advise  to  leave  the  black-coated  jack- 
daws to  their  noise-^but  he  could  not  follow 
his  own  counsel.  When  the  curs  were  at  his 
heels,  he  could  not  restrain  himself  from  lash- 
ing out  at  them  ;  and,  from  his  retreat  at  Basle, 
his  sarcasms  flashed  out  like  jagged  points  of 
lightning. 

]3escribing  an  emeute,  and  the  burning  of  an 
age  of  a  saint,  '  They  insulted  the  poor  image 
so,'  he  said,  'it  is  a  marvel  there  was  no  mira- 
cle. The  saint  worked  so  many  in  the  good 
old  times.' 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  8 1 

When  Luther  married  an  escaped  nun,  the 
Catholics  exclaimed  that  Antichrist  would  be 
born  from  such  an  incestuous  intercourse. 
'  Nay,'  Erasmus  said,  '  if  monk  and  nun  ])ro- 
duce  Antichrist,  there  must  have  been  legions 
of  Antichrists  these  many  years.' 

More  than  once  lie  was  tempted  to  go  over 
openly  to  Luther — not  from  a  noble  motive, 
but,  as  he  confessed,  '  to  make  those  furies 
feel  the  difference  between  him  and  them.' 
.  He  was  past  sixty,  with  broken  health  and 
failing  strength.  He  thought  of  going  back  to 
England,  but  England  had  by  this  time  caught 
fire,  and  Basle  had  caught  fire.  There  was  no 
peace  on  eartli. 

'The  horse  has  his  heels,'  he  said,  when  ad- 
vised to  be  quiet,  '  the  dog  his  teeth,  the 
hedgehog  his  spines,  the  bee  his  sting.  I  iny- 
self  have  my  tongue  and  my  pen,  and  why 
should  I  not  use  them  ? ' 

Yet  to  use  them  to  any  purpose  now  he 
must  take  a  side,  and,  sorely  tempted  as  he 
was,  he  could  not. 

With  the  negative  part  of  the  Protestan\ 
creed  he  sympathized  heartily  ;  but  he  did  iiot 
understand  Luther's  doctrine  of  faith,  because 
he  had  none  of  his  own,  and  he  disliked  it  as 
a  new  dogma. 

He  regarded  Luther's  movement  aai  an  out- 
burst of  commonplace  revolution,  caused  by 
the  folly  and  wickedness  of  the  authorities,  but 
with  no  organizing  vitality  in  itself;  and  his 
chief  distress,  as  we  gather  from  his  later 
letters,  was  at  his  own  treatment.  He  had 
done  his  best  for  both  sides.  He  had  failed, 
and  was  abused  by  everybody. 

Thus  passed  away  the  last  years  of  one  of  the 
most  gifted  men  that  Europe  has  ever  seen.  I 
have  quoted  many  of  his  letters.  I  will  add 
one  more  passage,  written  near  the  end  of  his 
life,  very  touching  and  patnetic  : — 

'  Hercules,'  he  said,  '  could  not  fight  two 
monsters  at   once ;  while  I,  poor  wretch,  have 


82  IIISTOKICAL  ESSAYS. 

lions,  cerberuses,  cancers,  scorpions  every  day 
at  my  sword's  point ;  not  to  mention  smaller 
vermin — rats,  mosquitoes,  bugs,  and  fleas.  My 
troops  of  friends  are  turned  to  enemies.  At 
dinner-tables  or  social  gatherings  in  churches 
and  kings'  courts,  in  public  carriage  or  public 
llyboat,  scandal  pursues  me,  and  calumny  de- 
files my  name.  Every  goose  now  hisses  at 
Erasmus  ;  and  it  is  worse  than  being  stoned, 
once  for  all,  like  Stephen,  or  shot  with  arrows 
like  Sebastian. 

'  They  attack  me  now  even  for  my  Latin 
style,  and  spatter  me  with  epigrams.  Fame  I 
would  have  parted  with  ;  but  to  be  the  sport 
of  blackguards — to  be  pelted  with  potsherds 
and  dirt  and  ordure — is  not  this  worse  than 
death  .? 

"  There  is  no  rest  for  me  in  my  age,  unless 
I  join  Luther  ;  and  I  cannot  accept  his  doc- 
trines. Sometimes  I  am  stung  with  a  desire 
to  avenge  my  wrongs ;  but  I  say  to  myself, 
"  Will  you,  to  gratify  your  spleen,  raise  your 
hand  against  your  mother  the  Church,  who  be- 
got you  at  the  font  and  fed  you  with  the  word 
of  God  ?  "  I  cannot  do  it.  Yet  I  understand 
now  how  Arius,  and  Tertullian,  and  Wickliff 
were  driven  into  schism.  The  theologians  say 
I  am  their  enemy.  Why  ?  Because  I  bade 
monks  remember  their  vows  ;  because  I  told 
parsons  to  leave  their  wranglings  and  read  the 
jjible  ;  because  I  told  popes  and  cardinals  to 
look  at  the  Apostles,  and  make  themselves 
more  like  to  them.  If  this  is  to  be  their  enemy, 
then  indeed  I  have  injured  them.' 

This  was  almost  the  last.  The  stone,  ad- 
vancing years,  and  incessant  toil  had  worn  him 
to  a  shred.  The  clouds  grew  blacker.  News 
came  from  England  that  his  dear  friends  More 
and  Fisher  hatl  died  upon  the  scaffold.  He 
had  long  ceased  to  care  for  life  ;  and  death, 
almost  as  sudden  as  he  had  longed  for,  gave 
him  peace  at  last. 

So  ended   Desidcrius   Erasmus,  the   world's 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  Zt, 

idol  for  so  many  years  ;  and  dying  heaped  with 
undeserved  but  too  intelligible  anathemas, 
seeing  all  that  he  had  labored  for  swept  away 
by  the  whirlwind. 

Do  not  let  me  lead  you  to  undervalue  him. 
Without  Erasmus,  Luther  would  have  been  im- 
possible ;  and  Erasmus  really  succeeded — so 
much  of  him  as  deserved  to  succeed — in  Lu- 
ther's victory. 

He  was  brilliantly  gifted.  His  industry  never 
tired.  His  intellect  was  true  to  itself  ;  and 
no  worldly  motives  ever  tempted  him  into  insin- 
cerity. He  was  ever  far  braver  than  he  pro- 
fessed to  be.  Had  he  been  brought  to  the 
trial,  he  would  have  borne  it  better  than  many 
a  man  who  boasted  louder  of  his  courage. 

And  yet,  for  his  special  scheme  for  remodel'- 
ling  the  mind  of  Europe,  he  failed  hopelessly — 
almost  absurdly.  He  believed,  himself,  that  his 
work  was  spoilt  by  the  Reformation  ;  but,  in 
fact,  under  no  conditions  could  any  more  have 
come  of  it. 

Literature  and  cultivation  will  feed  life  when 
life  exists  already  :  and  toleration  and  latitudi- 
narianism  are  well  enough  when  mind  and  con- 
science are  awake  and  energetic  of  them- 
selves. 

When  there  is  no  spiritual  life  at  all  ;  when 
men  live  only  for  themselves  and  for  sensual 
pleasure ;  when  religion  is  superstition,  and 
conscience  a  name,  and  God  an  idol  half  feared 
and  half  despised — then,  for  the  restoration  of 
the  higher  nature  in  man,  qualities  are  needed 
different  in  kind  from  any  which  ICrasmus  pos- 
sessed. 

And  now  to  go  back  to  Luther.  I  cannot 
tell  you  all  that  Luther  did;  it  would  be  to  tell 
you  all  the  story  of  the  German  Reformation. 
I  want  you  rather  to  consider  the  kind  of  man 
that  Luther  was,  and  to  see  in  his  character 
how  he  came  to  achieve  what  he  did. 

You  remember  that  the  Elector  of  Saxony, 
after  the  Diet  of  Worms,  sent  him  to  the  Castle 


84  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

of  Wartburg,  to  prevent  him  from  being  mur- 
dered or  kidnapped.  He  remained  there  many 
months  ;  and  during  that  time  the  old  eccles- 
iastical institutions  of  Germany  were  burning 
like  a  North  American  forest.  The  monas- 
teries were  broken  up  ;  the  estates  were  ap- 
propriated by  the  nobles  ;  the  monks  were  sent 
wandering  into  the  world.  The  bishops  looked 
helplessly  on  while  their  ancient  spiritual  do- 
minion was  torn  to  pieces  and  trodden  under 
foot.  The  Elector  of  Saxony,  the  Landgrave 
of  Hesse,  and  several  more  of  the  princes,  de- 
clared for  the  Reformation.  The  Protestants 
had  a  majority  in  the  Diet,  and  controlled  the 
force  of  the  empire.  Charles  the  Fifth,  busy 
with  his  French  ^yars,  and  in  want  of  money, 
dared  not  press  questions  to  a  crisis  which  he 
had  not  power  to  cope  with  •  and  he  was  ob- 
liged for  a  time  to  recognize  what  he  could  not 
prevent.  You  would  have  thought  Luther 
would  have  been  well  pleased  to  see  the  seed 
which  he  had  sown  bear  fruit  so  rapidly  ;  yet 
it  was  exactly  while  all  this  was  going  on 
that  he  experienced  those  temptations  of  the 
devil  of  which  he  has  left  so  wonderful  an  ac- 
count* 

We  shall  have  our  own  opinions  on  the  nat- 
ure of  these  ajiparitions.  Ilyt  Luther^Jt  is 
quite_-ceftain,  believed- that  Sat:in"iTTTnself  at- 
tackedJiixiX44vpefscm-.  Satan,  he  telTs  us,  came 
oTten  to  him,  and  said,  '  See  what  you  have 
done.  Behold  this  ancient  Church — this 
inothcr  of  saints-^polluted  and  defiled  by 
brutal  violence.  And  it  is  you — you,  a  poor 
ignorant  monk,  that  have  set  the  people  on  to 
their  unholy  work.  Are  you  so  much  wiser 
than  the  saints  who  approved  the  things  which 
you  have  denounced  ?  Popes,  bishops,  clergy, 
kings,  emperors — are  none  of  these — are  not 
all  these  together — wiser  than  Martin  Luther 
the  monk  ? ' 

The  devil,  he  says,  caused  him  great  agony 
by  these  suggestions.     He  fell  into  deep  fits 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  85 

of  doubt  and  humiliation  and  despondency. 
And  wherever  these  thoughts  came  from  we  can 
only  say  that  they  were  very  natural  thoughts 
— natural  and  right.  He  called  them  tempta- 
tions; yet  these  were  temptations  which  would 
not  have  occurred  to  any  but  a  high-minded 
man. 

He  had,  however,  done  only  what  duty  had 
forced  him  to  do.  His  business  was  to  trust 
to  God,  who  had  begun  the  work  and  knew 
what  He  meant  to  make  of  it.  His  doubt 
and  misgivingSj  therefore,  he  ascribed  to  Satan 
and  his  enormous  imaginative  vigor  gave  body 
to  the  voice  which  was  speaking  in  him. 

He  tells  many  humorous  stories — not  always 
producible — of  the  means  with  which  he  en- 
countered his  offensive  visitor. 

*  The  devil,'  he  says,  '  is  very  proud,  and 
what  he  least  likes  is  to  be  laughed  at.'  One 
night  he  was  disturbed  by  something  rattling 
in  his  room  ;  the  modern  unbeliever  will  sup- 
pose it  was  a  mouse.  He  got  up,  lit  a  candle, 
searched  the  apartnient  through,  and  could 
find  nothing — the  Evil  One  was  indisputably 
there. 

'Oh!'  he  said,  'it  is  you,  is  it?  He  re- 
turned to  bed,  and  went  to  sleep. 

Think  as  you  please  about  the  cause  of  the 
noise,  but  remember  that  Luther  had  not  the 
least  doubt  that  he  was  alone  in  the  room  with 
the  actual  devil,  who,  if  he  could  not  overcome 
his  soul,  could  at  least  twist  his  neck  in  a 
moment — and  then  think  what  courage  there 
must  have  been  in  a  man  who  could  deliber- 
ately sleep  in  such  a  presence  ! 

During  his  retirement  he  translated  the 
Bible.  The  confusion  at  last  became  so  des- 
perate that  he  could  no  longer  be  spared:  and 
believing  that  he  was  certain  to  be  destroyed, 
he  left  WarLburg  and  returned  to  Wittenberg. 
Death  was  always  before  him  as  supremely 
imminent.  He  used  to  say  that  it  would  be  a 
great  disgrace  to  the  Pope  ii  he  died  in  his  bed. 


86  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

He  was  wanted  once  at  Leipsic.  His  friends 
said  if  he  went  there  Duke  George  would  kill 
him. 

*  Duke  George  ! '  he  said  ;  '  I  would  go  to 
Leipsic  if  it  rained  Duke  Georges  for  nine 
days  ! ' 

No  such  cataclysm  of  Duke  George  happily 
took  place.  The  single  one  there  was  would 
have  gladly  been  mischievous  if  he  could  ;  but 
Luther  outlived  him — lived  for  twenty-four 
years  after  this,  in  continued  toil,  re-shaping 
the  German  Church,  and  giving  form  to  its  new 
doctrine. 

Sacerdotalism,  properly  so  called,  was  utter- 
ly abolished.  The  corruptions  of  tiie  Church 
had  all  grown  out  of  one  root — the  notion  that 
the  Christian  priesthood  possesses  mystical 
power,  conferred  through  episcopal  ordina- 
tion. 

•Religion,  as  Luther  conceived  it,  did  not 
consist  in  certain  things  done  to  and  for  a  man 
by  a  so-called  priest.  It  was  the  devotion  of 
each  individual  soul  to  the  service  of  God. 
Masses  were  nothing,  and  absolution  was 
nothing  ;  and  a  clergyman  differed  only  from  a 
layman  in  being  set  apart  for  the  especial  duties 
of  teaching  and  preaching. 

I  am  not  concerned  to  defend  Luther's  view 
in  this  matter.  It  is  a  matter  of  fact  only, 
that  in  getting  rid  of  episcopal  ordination,  he 
dried  up  the  fountain  from  which  the  mechan- 
ical and  idolatrous  conceptions  of  religion  had 
sprung ;  and,  in  consequence,  the  religious 
life  of  Germany  has  expanded  with  the  prog- 
ress of  knowledge,  while  priesthoods  every- 
where cling  to  the  formulas  of  the  past,  in 
which  they  live,  and  move,  and  have  their 
being. 

Enough  of  this. 

The  peculiar  doctrine  which  has  passed  into 
Europe  under  Luther's  name  is  known  as 
Justification  by  Faith.  Bandied  about  as  a 
watchword  of  party,  it  has  by  this  time  hardened 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  87 

into  a  formula,  and  has  become  barren  as  the 
soil  of  a  trodden  foot-path.  As  originally 
proclaimed  by  Luther,  it  contained  the  deepest 
of  moral  truths.  It  expressed  what  was,  and. 
is,  and  must  be,  in  one  language  or  another, 
to  the  end  of  time,  liie  conviction  of  every 
generous-minded  man. 

The  service  of  God,  as  Luther  learnt  it  from 
the  monks,  was  a  thing  of  desert  and  reward. 
So  many  good  works  done,  so  much  to  the 
right  page  in  the  great  book  ;  where  the  stock 
proved  insufficient,  there  was  the  reserve  fund 
of  the  merits  of  the  saints,  which  the  Church 
dispensed  for  money  to  those  who  needed. 

'  Merit ! '  Luther  thought.  '  What  merit  can 
there  be  in  such  a  poor  caitiff  as  man  ?  The 
better  a  man  is — the  more  clearly  he  sees  how 
little  he  is  good  for,  the  greater  mockery  it 
seems  to  attribute  to  him  the  notion  of  having 
deserved  reward.' 

'  Miserable  creatures  that  we  are  ! '  he  said ; 
*  we  earn  our  bread  in  sin.  Till  we  are  seven 
years  old,  we  do  nothing  but  eat  and  drink 
and  sleep  and  play  ;  from  seven  to  twenty-one 
we  studv  four  hours  a  dav,  the  rest  of  it  we 
run  about  and  amuse  ourselves  ;  then  we  work 
till  fifty,  and  then  we  grow  again  to  be  children. 
We  sleep  half  our  lives  ;  we  give  God  a  tenth 
of  our  time  :  and  yet  we  think  that  with  our 
good  works  we  can  merit  heaven.  What  have 
I  been  doing  to-day?  I  have  talked  for  two 
hours  ;  I  have  been  at  meals  three  hours ;  I 
have  been  idle  four  hours!  Ah,  enter  not  into 
judgment  with  thy  servant,  O  Lord  ! ' 

A  perpetual  struggle.  Forever  to  be  falling, 
yet  to  rise  again  and  stumble  forward  with  eyes 
turned  to  heaven — this  was  the  best  which 
would  ever  conie  of  man.  It  was  accepted  in 
its  imperfection  by  the  infinite  grace  of  God, 
who  pities  mortal  weakness,  and  accepts  the 
intention  for  the  deed — who,  when  there  is  a 
sincere  desire  to  serve  Him,  overlooks  the 
shortcomings  of  infirmity. 


88  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

Do  you  say  such  teaching  leads  to  disregard 
of  duty?  All  doctrines,  when  petritied  into 
formulas,  lead  to  that.  But,  as  Luther  said, 
'  where  real  faith  is,  a  good  life  follows,  as  light 
follows  the  sun  ;  faint  and  clouded,  yet  ever 
struggling  to  break  thiough  the  mist  which  en- 
velopes it,  and  welcoming  the  roughest  disci- 
pline which  tends  to  clear  and  raise  it. 

'  The  barley,'  he  says,  in  a  homely  but  ef- 
fective image — '  the  barley  which  we  brew,  the 
flax  of  which  we  weave  our  garments,  must  be 
bruised  and  torn  ere  they  come  to  the  use  for 
which  they  are  grown.  So  must  Christians 
suffer.  The  natural  creature  must  be  combed 
and  threshed.  The  old  Adam  must  die,  for 
the  higher  life  to  begin.  If  man  is  to  rise  to 
nobleness,  he  must  first  be  slain.' 

In  modern  language,  the  poet  Goethe  tells 
us  the  same  truth.  'The  natural  man,'  he 
says,  *  is  like  the  ore  out  of  the  iron  mine.  It 
is  smelted  in  the  furnace;  it  is  forged  into  bars 
upon  the  anvil.  A  new  nature  is  at  last  forced 
upon  it,  and  it  is  made  steel.' 

It  was  this  doctrine — it  was  this  truth  rather 
(the  word  doctrine  reminds  one  of  quack 
medicines) — which,  quickening  in  Luther's 
mind,  gave  Europe  its  new  life.  It  was  the 
(lame  which,  beginning  with  a  small  spark, 
kindled  the  heart-fires  in  every  German  house- 
hold. 
^-  Luther's  own  life  was  a  model  of  quiet  sim- 
]:)Iicity.  He  remained  poor.  He  might  have 
had  money  if  he  had  wished  ;  but  he  chose 
rather,  amidst  his  enormous  labor,  to  work 
at  a  turning-lathe  for  his  livelihood. 

He  was  sociable,  cheerful,  fond  of  innocent 
amusements,  and  delighted  to  encourage  them. 
His  table-talk,  collected  by  his  friends,  makes 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  books  in  the  world. 
He  had  no  monkish  theories  about  the  nec- 
essity of  abstinence  ;  but  he  was  temperate 
from  habit  and  principle,  A  salt  herring  and 
a  hunch  of  bread  was  his  ordinary  meal ;   and 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER.  89 

he  was  once  four  clays  without  food  of  any  sort, 
having  emptied  his  larder  among  the  poor. 

All  kinds  of  people  thrust  themselves  on 
Luther  for  help.  Flights  of  nuns  from  the  dis- 
solved convents  came  to  him  to  provide  for 
them — naked,  shivering  creatures,  with  scarce 
a  rag  to  cover  them.  Eight  florins  were  want- 
ed once  to  provide  clothes  for  some  of  them. 
'  Eight  florins  !  '  he  said  ;  '  and  where  am  I  to 
get  eight  florins  ? '  Great  people  had  made  him 
presents  of  plate  :  it  all  went  to  market  to  be 
turned  into  clothes  and  food  for  the  wretched. 

Melancthon  says  that,  unless  provoked,  he 
was  usually  very  gentle  and  tolerant.  He 
recognized,  and  was  almost  alone  in  recogniz- 
ing, the  necessity  of  granting  liberty  of  con- 
science. No  one  hated  Popery  more  than  he 
did,  yet  he  said  : — 

'  The  Papists  must  bear  with  us,  and  we  with 
them.  If  they  will  not  follow  us,  w^e  have  no 
right  to  force  them.  Wherever  they  can,  they 
will  hang,  burn,  behead,  and  strangle  us.  I, 
shall  be  persecuted  as  long  as  I  live,  and  most 
likely  killed.  But  it  must  come  to  this  at  last 
— every  man  must  be  allowed  to  believe  ac- 
cording to  his  conscience,  and  answer  for  his 
belief  to  his  Maker.' 

Erasmus  said  of  Luther  that  there  were  two 
natures  in  him  :  sometimes  he  wrote  like  an 
apostle — sometimes  like  a  raving  ribald. 

Doubtless,  Luther  could  be  impolite  on  oc- 
casions. When  he  was  angry,  invectives 
rushed  from  him  like  boulder  rocks  down  a 
mountain  torrent  in  flood.  We  need  not  ad- 
mire all  that ;  in  quiet  times  it  is  hard  to 
understand  it. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  specimen.  Our 
Henry  the  P^ighth,  who  began  life  as  a  highly 
orthodox  sovereign,  broke  a  lance  with  Luther 
for  the  Papacy. 

Luther  did  not  credit  Henry  with  a  composi- 
tion which  was  probably  his  own  after  all. 
He  thought  the  king  was  put  forward  by  some 


go  HISTORICAL  ESSA  YS. 

of  the  English  bishops — 'Thomists'  he  calls 
them,  as  men  who  looked  for  the  beginning 
and  end  of  wisdom  to  the  writings  of  Thomas 
Aquinas. 

'  Courage,'  he  exclaimed  to  them,  '  swine 
that  vou  are  !  burn  me  then,  if  vou  can  and 
dare.  Here  I  am ;  do  your  worst  upon  me. 
Scatter  my  ashes  to  all  the  winds — spread 
them  through  all  seas.  My  spirit  shall  pursue 
you  still.  Living,  I  am  the  foe  of  the  Papacy; 
and  dead,  I  will  be  its  foe  twice  over.  Hogs 
of  Thomists !  Luther  shall  be  the  bear  in 
your  way — the  Hon  in  your  path.  Go  where 
you  will  Luther  shall  cross  you.  Luther  shall 
leave  you  neither  peace  nor  rest  till  he  has 
crushed  in  your  brows  of  brass  and  dashed  out 
your  iron  brains.' 

Strong  expressions  ;  but  the  times  were  not 
gentle.  The  prelates  whom  he  supposed  him- 
self to  be  addressing  were  the  men  who  filled 
our  Smithfield  with  the  reek  of  burning  human 
flesh. 

Men  of  Luther's  stature  are  like  the  violent 
forces  of  Nature  herself — terrible  when  roused, 
and,  in  repose,  majestic  and  beautiful.  Of 
vanity  he  had  not  a  trace.  '  Do  not  call  your- 
selves Lutherans,'  he  said  ;  '  call  yourselves 
Christians.  Who  and  what  is  Luther  .''  Has 
Luther  been  crucified  for  the  world .''  ' 

I  mentioned  his  love  of  music.  His  songs 
and  hymns  were  the  expression  of  the  very  in- 
most heart  of  the  German  people.  '  Music  '  he 
called  '  the  grandest  and  sweetest  gifts  of  God 
to  man.'  '  Satan  hates  music,'  he  said  ;  '  he 
knows  how  it  drives  the  evil  spirit  out  of  us.' 

He  was  extremely  interested  in  all  natural 
things.  Ucfore  the  science  of  botany  was 
dreamt  of,  Luther  had  divined  the  principle 
of  vegetable  life.  'The  principle  of  marri- 
age runs  through  all  creation,'  he  said  ;  'and 
flowers  as  well  as  animals  are  male  and 
female.' 

A  garden  called  out  bursts  of  eloquence  from 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTIIEK.  91 

him  ;  beautiful  sometimes  as  a  finished  piece 
of  poetry. 

One  April  day  as  he  was  watching  the  swel- 
ling buds,  he  exclaimed  : — 

'  Praise  be  to  God  the  Creator,  who  out  of  a 
dead  world  makes  all  alive  again.  See  those 
shoots  how  they  burgeon  and  swell.  Image  of 
the  resurrection  of  the  dead  !  Winter  is  death 
—summer  is  the  resurrection.  Between  them 
lie  spring  and  autumn,  as  the  period  of  uncer- 
tainty and  change.     The  proverb  says — 

Trust  ntit  a  day 
Ere  birth  of  May. 

Let  US  pray  our  Father  in  heaven  to  give  us 
this  day  our  daily  bread.' 

'We  are  in  the  dawn  of  a  new  era,'  he  said 
another  time  ;  '  we  are  beginning  to  think  some- 
thing of  the  natural  world  which  was  ruined  in 
Adam's  fall.  We  are  learning  to  see  all  round 
us  the  greatness  and  glory  of  the  Creator.  We 
can  see  the  Almighty  hand — the  infinite  good- 
ness— in  the  humblest  flower.  We  praise  Him 
— we  thank  Him — we  glorify  Him — we  recog- 
nize in  creation  the  power  of  His  word.  He 
spoke  and  it  was  there.  The  stone  of  the 
peach  is  hard ;  but  the  soft  kernel  swells  and 
bursts  it  when  the  time  comes.  An  egg — 
what  a  thing  is  that!  If  an  egg  had  never 
been  seen  in  Europe,  and  a  traveller  had 
brought  one  from  Calcutta,  how  would  all  the 
world  have  wondered!' 

And  again  : — 

'  If  a  man  could  make  a  single  rose,  we 
should  give  him  an  empire ;  yet  roses,  and 
flowers  no  less  beautiful,  are  scattered  in  pro- 
fusion over  the  world,  and  no  one  regards 
them.' 

There  are  infinite  other  things  which  I 
should  like  to  tell  von  about  Luther,  but  time 
wears  on.  I  must  confine  what  more  I  have 
to  say  to  a  single  matter — for  which  more  than 


g2  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

any  other  he  has  been   blamed — I    mean  his 
marriage. 

He  himself,  a  monk  and  a  priest,  had  taken 
a  vow  of  celibacy.  The  person  whom  he 
married  had  been  a  nun,  and  as  such  had  taken 
a  vow  of  celibacy  also. 

The  marriage  was  unquestionably  no  affair 
of  passion.  Luther  had  come  to  middle  age 
when  it  was  brought  about,  when  temptations 
of  that  kind  lose  their  power ;  and  among  the 
many  accusations  which  have  been  brought 
against  his  early  life,  no  one  has  ventured  to 
charge  him  with  inconiinence.  His  taking  a 
wife  was  a  grave  act  deliberately  performed  ; 
and  it  was  either  meant  as  a  public  insult  to 
established  ecclesiastical  usage,  or  else  he  con- 
sidered that  the  circumstances  of  the  time 
required  it  of  him. 

Let  us  see  what  those  circumstances  were. 
The  enforcement  of  celibacy  on  the  clergy  was, 
in  Luther's  opinion,  both  iniquitous  in  itself, 
and  productive  of  enormous  immorality.  The 
impurity  of  the  religious  orders  had  been  the 
jest  of  satirists  for  a  hundred  years.  It  had 
been  the  distress  and  perplexity  of  pious  and 
serious  persons.  Luther  himself  was  impressed 
with  profound  pity  for  the  poor  men,  Avho  were 
cut  off  from  the  natural  companionship  which 
nature  had  provided  for  them — who  were  thus 
exposed  to  temptations  which  they  ought  not 
to  have  been  called  upon  to  resist. 

The  dissolution  of  the  religious  houses  had 
enormously  complicated  the  problem.  Ger- 
many was  covered  with  friendless  and  home- 
less men  and  women  adrift  upon  the  world. 
They  came  to  Luther  to  tell  them  what  to  do  ; 
and  advice  was  of  little  service  without  example. 

Tl)e  world  had  grown  accustomed  to 
immorality  in  such  persons.  They  might  have 
lived  together  in  concubinage,  and  no  one 
would  have  thought  much  about  it.  Their 
marriage  was  regarded  with  a  superstitious 
terror  as  a  kind  of  incest. 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHRN. 


93 


Luther,  on  the  other  hand,  regarded  mar- 
riage as  the  natural  and  healthy  state  in  which 
clergy  as  well  as  laity  were  intended  to  live. 
Iniinorality  was  luiLei'ul  to  him  as  a  degradation 
of  a  sacrament — impious,  loathsome,  and  dis- 
honored. Marriage  was  the  condition  in 
which  humanity  was  at  once  purest,  best,  and 
happiest. 

For  himself,  he  had  become  inured  to  a 
single  life.  He  had  borne  the  injustice  of 
his  lot,  when  the  burden  had  been  really  heavy. 

But  time  and  custom  had  lightened  the  load  ; 
and  had  there  been  nothing  at  issue  but  his 
own  personal  happiness,  he  would  not  have 
given  further  occasion  to  the  malice  of  his 
enemies. 

But  tens  of  thousands  of  poor  creatures 
were  looking  to  him  to  guide  them — guide  them 
by  pre.cept,  or  guide  them  by  example.  He 
had  satisfied  himself  that  the  vow  of  celibacy 
had  been  unlawfully  imposed  both  on  him  and 
them — that,  as  he  would  put  it,  it  had  been  a 
gnare  devised  by  the  devil.  He  saw  that  all 
eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  that  it  was  no  use  to 
tell  others  that  they  might  marry,  unless  he 
himself  led  the  way,  and  married  first.  And 
it  was  characteristic  of  him  that,  having  resolved 
to  do  the  thing,  he  did  it  in  the  way  most  likely 
to  show  the  world  his  full  thought  upon  the 
matter. 

That  this  was  his  motive,  there  is  no  kind 
of  doubt  whatever. 

'  We  may  be  able  to  live  unmarried,'  he  said  ; 
'■  but  hi  these  days  we  must  protest  in  deed  as 
well  as  word,  against  the  doctrine  of  celibacy. 
It  is  an  invention  of  Satan.  Before  I  took  my 
wife,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I  must  marry 
some  one  ;  and  had  I  been  overtaken  by  illness, 
I  should  have  betrothed  myself  to  some  pious 
maiden.' 

He  asked  nobody's  advice.  Had  he  let  his 
intention  be  suspected,  the  moderate  respec- 
table    people — the    people   who   thought   like 


94 


HJSl'ORICAL  ESS  A  YS. 


Erasmus — those  who  wished  well  to  what  was 
good,  but  wished  also  to  stand  well  with  the 
world's  opinion — such  persons  as  these  would 
have    overwhelmed    him    with    remonstrances. 

'  When  you  marry,'  he  said  to  a  friend  in  a 
similar  situation,  '  be  quiet  about  it,  or  moun- 
tains will  rise  between  you  and  your  wishes. 
If  I  had  not  been  swift  and  secret  I  should 
have  had  the  whole  world  in  mv  wav.' 

Catherine  Bora,  the  lady  whom  he  chose 
for  his  wife,  was  a  nun  of  good  famil}',  left 
homeless  and  shelterless  by  the  breaking-up  of 
her  convent.  She  was  an  ordinary,  unimagin- 
ative body — plain  in  person  and  plain  in  mind, 
in  no  sense  whatever  a  heroine  of  romance-r 
but  a  decent,  sensible,  commonplace  Hans  Frau. 

The  age  of  romance  was  over  with  both 
of  them  ;  yet  for  all  that,  never  marriage 
brought  a  plainer  blessing  with  it.  They 
began  with  respect  and  ended  with  steady 
affection. 

The  happiest  life  on  earth  Luther  used  to 
say,  is  with  a  pious  good  wife :  in  peace  and 
quiet,  contented  with  a  little,  and  giving  God 
thanks. 

He  spoke  from  his  own  experience.  His 
Katie,  as  he  called  her,  was  not  clever,  and  he 
had  numerous  stories  to  tell  of  the  beginning 
of  their  adventures  together. 

'  The  first  year  of  married  life  is  an  odd 
business  he  says.  *  At  meals,  where  you  used 
to  be  alone,  you  are  yourself  and  somebody 
else.  When  you  wake  in  the  morning,  there 
are  a  pair  of  tails  close  to  you  on  the  pillow. 
My  Katie  used  to  sit  with  me  when  I  was  at 
work.  She  thought  she  ought  not  to  be  silent. 
She  did  not  know  what  to  say,  so  she  would 
ask  me. 

'"Herr  Doctor,  is  not  the  master  of  the 
ceremonies  in  Prussia  the  brother  of  the  Mar- 
grave ?  " ' 

She  was  an  old  woman. 

'Doctor,'  she  said  to  him  one  day,  'how  is  it 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER,  g^ 

that  under  Popery  we  prayed  so  often  and  so 
earnestly,  and  now  our  prayers  are  cold  and 
seldom  ? ' 

Katie  might  have  spoken  for  herself.  Lulher, 
to  the  last,  spent  hours  of  every  day  in  prayer. 
Pie  advised  her  to  read  the  Bible  a  little  more. 
She  said  she  had  read  enough  of  it,  and  knew 
half  of  it  by  heart.  'Ah!'  he  said,  "here 
begins  weariness  of  the  word  of  God.  One 
day  new  light  will  rise  up,  and  the  Scriptures 
will  be  despised  and  be  flung  away  into  the 
corner.' 

His  relations  with  his  children  were  singu- 
larly beautiful.  The  recollection  of  his  own 
boyhood  made  him  especially  gentle  with  them, 
and  their  fancies  and  imaginations  delighted 
him. 

Children,  to  him,  were  images  of  unfallen 
nature.  '  Children,'  he  said,  '  imagine  heaven 
a  place  where  rivers  run  with  cream,  and  trees 
are  hung  with  cakes  and  plums.  Do  not  blame 
them.  They  are  but  showing  their  simple, 
natural,  unquestioning,  all-believing  faith.' 

One  day,  after  dinner,  when  the  fruit  was 
on  the  table,  the  children  were  watching  it 
with  longing  eyes.  '  That  is  the  way,'  he  said, 
'in  which  we  grown  Christians  ought  to  look 
for  the  Judgment  Day.' 

His  daughter  Magdalen  died  when  she  was 
fourteen.  He  speaks  of  his  loss  with  the  un- 
affected simplicity  of  natural  grief,  yet  with 
the  faith  of  a  man  who  had  not  the  slightest 
doubt  into  whose  hands  his  treasure  was 
passing.  Perfect  nature  and  perfect  piety. 
Neither  one  emotion  nor  the  other  disguised 
or  suppressed. 

You  will  have  gathered  something,  I  hope, 
from  these  faint  sketches,  of  what  Luther  was ; 
you  will  be  able  to  see  how  far  he  deserves  to 
be  called  by  our  modern  new  lights,  a  Philistine 
or  a  heretic.  We  will  now  return  to  the  subject 
with  which  we  began,  and  resume,  in  a  general 
conclusion,  the  argument  of  these  Lectures. 


^6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

In  part,  but  not  wholly,  it  can  be  done  in 
Luther's  words. 

One  regrets  that  Luther  did  not  know 
Erasmus  better,  or  knowing  him,  should  not 
have  treated  him  with  more  forbearance. 

Erasmus  spoke  of  him  for  the  most  part  with 
kindness.  He  interceded  for  him,  defended 
him,  and  only  with  the  utmost  reluctance  was 
driven  into  controversy  with  him. 

Luther,  on  the  other  hand,  saw  in  Erasmus 
a  man  who  was  false  to  his  convictions  ;  who 
played  with  truth  ;  who,  in  his  cold,  sarcastic 
scepticism,  believed  in  nothing — scarcely  even 
in  God.  He  was  unaware  of  his  own  obliga- 
tions  to  him,  for  Erasmus  was  not  a  person 
who  would  trumpet  out  his  own  good  deeds. 

Thus  Luther  says  : — 

'  All  you  who  honor  Christ,  I  pray  you  hate 
Erasmus.  He  is  a  scoffer  and  a  mocker.  He 
speaks  in  riddles  ;  and  jests  at  Popery  and 
Gospel,  and  Christ  and  God,  with  his  uncertain 
speeches.  He  might  have  served  the  Gospel 
if  he  would,  but,  Hke  Judas,  he  has  betrayed 
the  Son  of  Man  with  a  kiss.  He  is  not  with 
us,  and  he  is  not  with  our  foes ;  and  I  say  with 
Joshua,  Choose  whom  ye  will  serve.  He  thinks 
we  should  trim  to  the  times,  and  hang  our 
cloaks  to  the  wind.  He  is  himself  his  own 
first  object ;  and  as  he  lived,  lie  died. 

'  I  take  Erasmus  to  be  the  worst  enemy  that 
Christ  has  had  for  a  thousand  years.  Intellect 
does  not  understand  religion,  and  when  it 
comes  to  the  things  of  God,  it  laughs  at  them. 
He  scoffs  like  Lucian,  and  by-and-by  he  will 
say.  Behold,  how  are  these  among  the  saints 
whose  life  we  counted  for  folly. 

'  I  bid  you,  therefore,  take  heed  of  Erasmus. 
He  treats  theolpgy  as  a  fool's  jest,  and  the 
Gospel  as  a  fable  good  for  the  ignorant  to 
believe.' 

Of  Erasmus  personally,  much  of  this  was 
unjust  and  untrue.  Erasmus  knew  many 
things    which   it   would    have   been   well   for 


ERASMUS  AND  LUTHER. 


97 


Luther  to  linve  known  ;  and,  as  a  man,  he  was 
better  than  his  principles. 

But  if  for  the  name  of  Erasmus  we  substitute 
the  theory  of  human  things  which  Erasmus  rep- 
resented, between  that  creed  and  Luther 
there  is,  and  must  be,  an  eternal  antagonism. 

If  to  be  true  in  heart  and  just  in  act  are  the 
first  qualities  necessary  for  the  elevation  of 
humanity — if  without  these  all  else  is  worthless, 
intellectual  culture  cannot  give  what  intellectual 
culture  does  not  require  or  imply.  You  cultivate 
the  plant  which  has  already  life ;  you  will 
waste  your  labor  in  cultivating  a  stone.  The 
moral  life  is  the  counterpart  of  the  natural, 
alike  mysterious  in  its  origin,  and  alike  visible 
only  in  its  efTects. 

Intellectual  gifts  are  like  gifts  of  strength, 
or  wealth,  or  rank,  or  worldly  power — splendid 
instruments  if  nobly  used — but  requiring 
qualities  to  use  them  nobler  and  better  than 
themselves. 

The  rich  man  may  spend  his  wealth  on  vulgar 
luxury.  The  clever  man  may  live  for  intellectual 
enjoyment — refined  enjoyment  it  may  be — but 
enjoyment  still,  and  still  centering  in  self. 

If  the  spirit  of  Erasmus  had  prevailed,  it 
would  have  been  with  modern  Europe  as  with 
the  Roman  Empire  in  its  decay.  The  educated 
would  have  been  mere  sceptics ;  the  multitude 
would  have  been  sunk  in  superstition.  In  both 
alike  all  would  have  perished  which  deserves 
the  name  of  manliness. 

And  this  leads  me  to  the  last  observation 
that  I  have  to  make  to  you.  In  the  sciences, 
the  philosopher  leads  ;  the  rest  of  us  take  on 
trust  what  he  tells  us.  The  spiritual  progress 
of  mankind  has  followed  the  opposite  course. 
Each  forward  step  has  been  made  first  among 
the  people,  and  the  last  converts  have  been 
among  the  learned. 

The  explanation  is  not  far  to  look  for.  In 
the  sciences  there  is  no  temptation  of  self- 
hiterest  to  mislead.     In  matters  which  affect 


98 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


life  and  conduct,  the  interests  and  prejudices 
of  the  cultivated  classes  are  enlisted  on  the 
side  of  the  existing  order  of  things,  and  their 
better  trained  faculties  and  larger  acquire- 
ments serve  only  to  find  them  argument  for  be- 
lieving what  they  wish  to  believe. 

Simpler  men  have  less  to  lose  ;  they  come 
more  in  contact  with  the  realities  of  life,  and 
they  learn  wisdom  in  the  experience  of  suffer- 
ing. 

Thus  it  was  that  when  the  learned  and  the 
wise  turned  away  from  Christianity,  the  fisher- 
men of  the  Galilean  lake  listened,  and  a  new 
life  began  for  mankind.  A  miner's  son  con- 
verted Germany  to  the  Reformation,  The 
London  artisans  and  the  peasants  of  Bucking- 
hamshire went  to  the  stake  for  doctrines  which 
were  accepted  afterwards  as  a  second  revela- 
tion. 

So  it  has  been ;  so  it  will  be  to  the  end, 
When  a  great  teacher  comes  again  upon  the 
earth,  he  will  find  his  first  disciples  where 
Christ  found  them  and  Luther  fopnd  them. 
Had  Luther  written  for  the  learned,  the  words 
which  changed  the  face  of  Europe  would  have 
slumbered  in  impotence  on  the  bookshelves. 

In  appealing  to  the  German  nation,  you  will 
agree,  I  think,  with  me,  that  he  did  well  and 
not  ill ;  you  will  not  sacrifice  his  great  name  to 
the  disdain  of  a  shallow  philosophy,  or  to  the 
grimacing  of  a  dead  superstition^  whose  ghost 
is  struggling  out  of  its  gravo. 


SPINOZA. 


Bencdicti  de  Sfiiioza  Tractattis  de  Deo  et  Homine  ejusqm 
Eelicitate  Lhieainctnit,  atipie  Annotationes  ad  Tracta- 
turn  Thcolo^ico-Polilictt7n,  edidit  ct  illustravit  Edwar- 
DUS  BoEHMER.    Halae  ad  Salam.  J.  F.  Lippert.-i852. 

This  little  volume  is  one  evidence-  among 
many  of  the  interest  which  continues  to  be  felt 
by  the  German  students  in  Spinoza.  The  actual 
merit  of  the  book  itself  is  little  or  nothing  ;  but 
it  shows  the  industry  with  which  they  are  glean- 
ing among  the  libraries  of  Holland  for  any 
traces  of  him  which  they  can  recover ;  and  the 
smallest  fragments  of  his  writings  are  acquir- 
ing that  factitious  importance  which  attaches 
to  the  most  insignificant  relics  of  acknowledged 
greatness.  Such  industry  cannot  ^e  otherwise 
than  laudable,  but  we  do  not  think  it  at  present 
altogether  wisely  directed.  Nothing  is  likely 
to  be  brought  to  light  which  will  further  illus- 
trate Spinoza's  philosophy.  He  himself  spent 
the  better  part  of  his  life  in  clearing  his  lan- 
guage of  ambiguities  ;  and  such  earlier  sketches 
of  his  system  as  are  supposed  still  to  be  exfant 
in  MS.,  and  a  specimen  of  which  M.  JBoehmer 
believes  himself  to  have  discovered,  contribute 
only  obscurity  to  what  is  in  no  need  of  addi- 
tional difficulty.  Of  Spinoza's  private  history, 
on  the  contrary,  rich  as  it  must  have  been,  and 
abundant  traces  of  it  as  must  be  extant  some- 
where in  his  own  and  his  friends'  correspond- 
ence, we  know  only  enough  to  f.eel  how  vast  a 

*  Weslminster  Kevieiii,   1854. 


lOO  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

chasm  remains  to  be  filled.  It  is  not  often 
that  any  man  in  this  world  lives  a  life  so  well 
worth  writing  as  Spinoza  lived ;  not  for  strik- 
ing incidents  or  large  events  connected  with  it, 
but  because  (and  no  sympathy  with  his  peculiar 
opinions  disposes  us  to  exaggerate  his  merit) 
he  was  one  of  the  very  best  men  whom  these 
modern  times  have  seen,  Excommunicated, 
disinherited,  and  thrown  upon  the  world  when 
a  mere  boy  to  seek  his  livelihood,  he  resisted 
the  inducements  which  on  all  sides  were  urged 
upon  him  to  come  forward  in  the  world.  He 
refused  pensions,  legacies,  money  in  many 
forms ;  he  maintained  himself  with  grinding 
glasses  for  optical  instruments,  an  art  which 
he  had  been  taught  in  early  life,  and  in  which 
he  excelled  the  best  workmen  in  Holland  ;  and 
when  he  died,  which  was  at  the  early  age  of 
forty-four,  the  affection  with  which  he  was  re- 
garded showed  itself  singularly  in  the  endorse- 
ment of  a  tradesman's  bill  which  was  sent  in 
to  his  executors,  in  which  he  was  described  as 
M.  Spinoza  of  '  blessed  memory.' 

The  account  which  remains  of  him  we  owe, 
not  to  an  admiring  disciple,  but  to  a  clergy-- 
man  to  whom  his  theories  were  detestable  ; 
and  his  biographer  allows  that  the  most  malig- 
nant scrutiny  had  failed  to  detect  a  blemish  in 
his  character — that,  except  so  far  as  his  opin- 
ions were  blamable,  he  had  lived  to  outward 
appearance  free  from  fault.  We  desire,  in  what 
we  are  going  to  say  of  him,  to  avoid  offensive 
collision  with  popular  prejudices ;  still  less 
shall  we  place  ourselves  in  antagonism  with 
the  earnest  convictions  of  serious  persons  :  our 
business  is  to  relate  what  Spinoza  was,  and 
leave  others  to  form  their  own  conclusions. 
But  one  lesson  there  does  seem  to  lie  in  such 
a  life  of  such  a  man, — a  lesson  which  he  taught 
equally  by  example  and  in  word, — that  wher- 
ever there  is  genuine  and  thorough  love  for 
good  and  goodness,  no  speculative  superstruct- 
ure of  opinion  can  be  so  extravagant  as  to  for- 


SPINOZA.  1 01 

feit  those  graces  which  are  promised,  not  to 
clearness  of  intellect,  but  to  purity  of  heart. 
In  Spinoza's  own  beautiful  language, — '  Justilia 
et  caritas  unicum  et  certissinnnn  vera;  fidei 
Catholicai  signuni  est,  et  veri  Spiritiis  Sancti 
fructus :  et  ubicumque  haic  reperiuntur,  ibi 
Chrislus  re  vera  est,  et  ubicumque  h;x;c  desuut 
deest  Christus  :  solo  namque  Christi  Spiritu 
duci  possumus  in  amorem  justilia^  et  caritatis.' 
We  may  deny  his  conclusions  ;  we  may  con- 
sider his  system  of  thought  preposterous  and 
even  pernicious;  but  we  cannot  refuse  him  the 
respect  which  is  the  right  of  all  sincere  and 
honorable  men.  Wherever  and  on  whatever 
questions  good  men  are  found  ranged  on  oppo- 
site sides,  one  of  three  alternatives  is  always 
true  :  either  the  points  of  disagreement  are 
purely  speculative  and  of  no  moral  importance 
— or  there  is  a  misunderstanding  of  language, 
and  the  same  thing  is  meant  under  a  difference 
of  words — or  else  the  real  truth  is  something 
different  from  what  is  held  by  any  of  the  dis- 
putants, and  each  is  representing  some  impor- 
tant element  which  the  others  ignore  or  forget. 
In  either  case,  a  certain  calmness  and  good 
temper  is  necessar}-,  if  we  would  understand 
what  we  disagree  with,  or  would  oppose  it  with 
success  ;  Spinoza's  influence  over  European 
thought  is  too  great  to  be  denied  or  set  aside  ; 
and  if  his  doctrines  be  false  in  part,  or  false  al- 
together, we  cannot  do  their  work  more  surely 
than  by  calumny  or  misrepresentation — a  niost 
obvious  truism,  which  no  one  now  living  will 
deny  in  words,  and  which  a  century  or  two 
hence  perhaps  will  begin  to  produce  same  effect 
upon  the  popular  judgment. 

Ucaring  it  in  mind,  then,  ourselves,  as  far  as 
we  are  able,  we  propose  to  examine  the  Pan- 
theistic philosophy  in  the  first  and  only  logical 
form  which  as  yet  it  has  assumed.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  case  with  Spinoza's  disci- 
ples, in  the  author  of  this  system  there  was  no 
unwillingness  ;  to  look  closely  at  it,  or  to  follow 


I02  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

it  out  its  conclusions  and  whatever  other  merits 
or  .demerits  belong  to  him,  at  least  he  has  done 
as  much  as  with  language  can  be  done  to  make 
himself  thoroughly  understood. 

And  yet,  both  in  friend  and  enemy  alike, 
there  has  been  a  reluctance  to  see  Spinoza  as 
he  really  was.  The  Herder  and  Schleierma- 
cher  school  have  claimed  him  as  a  Christian — 
position  which  no  little  disguise  was  necessary 
to  make  tenable ;  the  orthodox  Protestants 
and  Catholics  have  called  him  an  Atheist — 
which  is  still  more  extravagant ;  and  even  a 
man  like  Novalis,  who,  it  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, would  have  had  something  reasonable 
to  say,  could  find  no  better  name  for  him  than 
a  Gott  trunkner  Mami — a  God  intoxicated 
man  :  an  expression  which  has  been  quoted 
by  everybody  who  has  since  written  upon  the 
subject,  and  which  is  about  as  inapplicable  as 
those  laboriously  pregnant  sayings  usually  are. 
With  due  allowance  for  exaggeration,  such  a 
name  would  describe  tolerably  the  Transcen- 
dental mystics,  a  Toler,  a  Boehmen,  or  a  Swe- 
denborg ;  but  with  what  justice  can  it  be  ap- 
plied to  the  cautious,  methodical  Spinoza,  who 
carried  his  thoughts  about  with  him  for  twenty 
years,  deliberately  shajDingthem,  and  who  gave 
them  at  last  to  the  world  in  a  form  more  severe 
than  with  such  subjects  had  ever  been  so  much 
as  attempted  before  .''  With  him,  as  with  all 
great  men,  there  was  no  effort  after  sublime 
emotions.  He  was  a  plain,  practical  person  ; 
his  object  in  philosophy  was  only  to  find  a  rule 
by  which  to  govern  his  own  actions  and  his 
own  judgment;  and  his  treatises  contain  no 
more  than  the  conclusions  at  which  he  arrived 
in  this  purely  personal  search,  with  the  grounds 
on  which  he  rested  them. 

We  cannot  do  better  than  follow  his  own  ac- 
count of  himself  as  he  has  given  it  in  the  open- 
ing of  his  unfinished  Tract,  '  Dc  Emendatione 
Intellcctus.*  His  language  is  very  beautiful, 
but  it  is  elaborate  and  full ;  and,  as  we  have  a. 


SPINOZA. 


103 


long  journey  before  us,  we  must  be  content  to 
epitomize  it. 

Looking  round  him  on  his  entrance  into  life, 
and  asking  himself  what  was  his  place  and 
business  there,  he  turned  for  examples  to  his 
fellow-men,  and  found  little  that  he  could 
venture  to  imitate.  He  observed  them  all  in 
their  several  ways  governing  themselves  by 
their  different  notions  of  what  they  thought 
desirable  ;  while  these  notions  themselves  were 
resting  on  no  more  secure  foundation  than  a 
vague,  inconsistent  experience  :  the  experience 
of  one  was  not  the  experience  of  another,  and 
thus  men  were  all,  so  to  say,  rather  playing  ex- 
periments with  life  than  living,  and  the  larger 
portion  of  them  miserably  failing.  Their  mis- 
takes arose,  as  it  seemed  to  Spinoza,  from  in- 
adequate knowledge  ;  things  which  at  one  time 
looked  desirable  disapi^ointed  expectation  when 
obtained,  and  the  wiser  course  concealed  itself 
often  under  an  uninviting  exterior.  He  de- 
sired to  substitute  certainty  for  conjecture,  and 
to  endeavor  to  find,  by  some  surer  method, 
where  the  real  good  of  man  actually  lay.  We 
must  remember  that  he  had  been  brought  up 
a  Jew,  and  had  been  driven  out  of  the  Jews' 
communion  ;  his  mind  was  therefore  in  con- 
tact wilh  the  bare  facts  of  life,  with  no  creed 
or  system  lying  between  them  and  himself  as 
the  interpreter  of  experience.  He  was  thrown 
on  his  own  resources  to  find  his  way  for  him- 
self, and  the  question  was,  how  to  find  it.  Of 
all  forms  of  human  thought,  one  onh^,  he  re- 
flected, would  admit  of  the  certainty  which  he 
required.  If  certain  knowledge  were  attain- 
able at  all,  it  must  be  looked  for  under  the 
matliematical  or  demonstrative  method ;  by 
tracing  from  ideas  clearly  conceived  the  con- 
sequences which  were  formally  involved  in 
them.  What,  then,  were  these  ideas — these 
vcrcc  idea;.,  as  he  calls  them — and  how  were 
lf"_y  to  be  obtained  ?     If  they  were  to  serve  as 


I04 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


the  axioms  of  his  system,  they  must  be  self- 
evident  truths,  of  which  no  proof  was  required; 
and  the  illustration  which  he  gives  of  the  char- 
acter of  such  ideas  is  ingenious  and  Platonic. 
In  order  to  produce  any  mechanical  instru- 
ment, Spinoza  says,  we  require  others  with 
which  to  manufacture  it ;  and  others  again  to 
manufacture  those  ;  and  it  would  seem  thus  as 
if  the  process  must  be  an  infinite  one,  and  as 
if  nothing  could  ever  be  made  at  all.  Nature, 
however,  has  provided  for  the  difficulty  in  creat- 
ing of  her  own  accord  certain  rude  instruments 
with  the  help  of  which  we  can  make  others 
better  ;  and  others  again  with  the  help  of  those. 
And  so  he  thinks  it  must  be  with  the  mind; 
there  must  be  somewhere  similar  original  in- 
struments provided  also  as  the  first  outfit  of 
intellectual  enterprise.  To  discover  these,  he 
examines  the  various  senses  in  which  men  are 
said  to  know  anything,  and  he  finds  that  they 
resolve  themselves  into  three,  or,  as  he  else- 
where divides  it,  four. 
We  know  a  thing — 

i.  Ex  mero  auditu  :  because  we  have 
heard  it  from  some  ])erson  or  persons 
whose  veracity  we  have  no  reason  to 
question. 
^  ii.  Ab  experietitia  vaga  :  from  general 
experience :  for  instance,  all  facts  or 
phenomena  which  come  to  us  through 
our  senses  as  phenomena,  but  of  the 
causes  of  which  we  are  ignorant. 

2.  We  know  a  thing  as  we  have  correctly 
convinced  the  laws  of  its  phenomena,  and  see 
them  following  in  their  sequence  in  the  order 
of  nature. 

3.  Finally,  we  know  a  thing,  ex  scieiitia  in- 
iiiiiivdi  which  alone  is  absolutely  clear  and 
certain. 

To  illustrate  these  divisions,  suppose  it  be 
required  to  find  a  fourth  proportional  which 
shall  stand  to  the   third  of   three  numbers  as 


SPINOZA.  105 

the  second  does  to  the  first.  The  merchant's 
clerk  knows  his  rule  ;  he  multiplies  the  second 
into  the  third  and  divides  by  the  first.  He 
neither  knows  nor  cares  to  know  why  the  restdt 
is  the  number  which  he  seeks,  but  he  has 
learnt  the  fact  that  it  is  so,  and  he  remembers 
it. 

A  person  a  little  wiser  has  tried  the  experi- 
ment in  a  variety  of  simple  cases  ;  he  has  dis- 
covered the  rule  by  induction,  but  still  does 
not  understand  it. 

A  third  has  mastered  the  laws  of  proportion 
mathematically,  as  he  has  found  them  in  Euclid 
or  other  geometrical  treatise. 

A  fourth,  with  the  plain  numbers  of  1,2,  and 
3,  sees  for  himself  by  simple  intuitive  force  that 
I  :  2=3  :6. 

Of  these  several  kinds  of  knowledge,  the 
third  and  fourth  alone  deserve  to  be  called 
knowledge,  the  others  being  no  more  than 
opinions  more  or  less  justly  founded.  The  last 
is  the  only  real  insight,  although  the  third, 
being  exact  in  its  form,  may  be  depended  upon 
as  a  basis  of  certainty.  Under  this  last,  as 
Spinoza  allows,  nothing  except  the  very  sim- 
plest truths,  71011  nisi  simpiicissimce  vcritates^  can 
be  perceived  ;  but,  such  as  they  are,  they  are 
the  foundation  of  all  after-science  ;  and  the 
true  ideas,  the  vcrcs  idece,  which  are  appre- 
hended by  this  faculty  of  intuition,  are  the 
primitive  instruments  with  which  nature  has 
furnished  us.  If  we  ask  for  a  test  by.  which 
to  distinguish  them,  he  has  none  to  give  us. 
'  Veritas,'  he  says  to  his  friends,  in  answer 
to  their  question,  '  Veritas  index  sui  est  et 
falsi.  Veritas  se  ipsam  patefacit.'  All  orig- 
inal truths  are  of  such  a  kind  that  they  cannot 
without  absurdity  even  be  conceived  to  be 
false  ;  the  opposites  of  them  are  contradictions 
in  terms. — '  Ut  sciam  me  scire,  necessario 
(lebeo  prius  scire.  Hinc  [latet  quod  certitude 
nihil  est  proiter  ipsam  essentiam  objectivam. 
.  .  .  Cum  itaque  Veritas  nuUo  egeat  signo,  sed 


lo6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

sufficiat  habere    essentiam  rerum  objectivam, 
aut,  quod   idem    est,   ideas,    ut  omne    tollatur 
dubium  ;    bine     sequitur    quod    vera    non    est 
methodus,   signum  veritatis  quajrere   post  ac- 
quisitionem  idearum  ;  sed  quod  vera  methodus 
est  via,  ut  ipsa  Veritas,  aut  essentia  objective 
rerum,  aut  ide.ne  (omnia  ilia  idem  significant) 
debito  ordine  qurerantur.'  {De  Emend.  Inidl.) 
Spinoza  will   scarcely   carry   with  him   the 
reasoner  of  the  nineteenth  century  in  arguments 
like  these.     When  we  remember  the  thousand 
conflicting  opinions,    the  truth  of  which  their 
several  advocates  have  a*s  little  doubted  as  they 
have  doubted  their  own  existence,  we  require 
some  better  evidence  than  a  mere  feeling  of 
certainty  ;  and  Aristotle's  less  pretending  canon 
promises  a  safer  road.   ""O  Trao-t  Sokci,   '  what  all 
men  think,'  says  Aristotle,  rovro     etvai     c/xi/Acy, 
'  this  we  say  is,' — '  and  if  you  will  not  have  this 
to  be   a   fair   ground   of   conviction,  you  will 
scarcely  find  one  which  will  serve  you  better. 
We  are  to  see,  however  what  these  idcce  are 
which  are  offered  to  us   as   self-evident.     Of 
course,    if   they   are    self-evident,    if   they   do 
produce    conviction,   nothing   more    is   to   be 
said;  but  it  does,  indeed,  appear   strange  to 
us  that  Spinoza  was  not  staggered  as  to   the 
validity  of  his  canon,  when  his  friends,  every 
one    of   them,   so  floundered    and    stumbled 
among  what  he  regarded  as  his  simplest  pro- 
positions ;  when  he  found  them,  in  spite  of  all 
that  he  could  say,  requiring  endless  signa  veri- 
tatis, and  unable  for  along  time  even  to  under- 
stand their  meaning,  far  less  to  '  recognize  them 
as   elementary  certainties.'      Modern  readers 
may,  perhaps,  be  more  fortunate.      We    pro- 
duce at  length  the  definitions   and  axioms  of 
the    first  book  of  the  '  Ethica,'  and  they  may 
judge  for  themselves  : — 

DKFINiriONS. 

I.  Uy  a  thing  whicli  is  ouis.i  siii,  its  own  cniisc,  I  mean 
a  thing  the  essence  ot  which  involves  the  existence  of  it, 


SPINOZA.  107 

or  a  thing  which  cannot  be  conceived  except  as  exist- 

iiic. 

2.  I  call  a  thing  finite,  siio  genere,  when  it  can  be  lim- 
ited by  another  (or  others)  of  the  same  nature— ^.  .i^.  a 
given  body  is  called  finite,  because  we  can  always  con- 
ceive another  body  enveloping  it  ;  but  body  is  not 
limited  bv  thought,  nor  thought  by  body. 

3.  I?y  substance  I  mean  what  exists  in  itself  and  is 
conceived  bv  itself  ,  the  conception  of  which,  that  is, 
does  not  involve  the  conception  of  anything  else  as  the 

cause  it.  ... 

4.  By  attribute  I  mean  whatever  the  intellect  perceives 
of  substance  as  constituting  the  essence  of  substance. 

5.  Mode  is  an  affection  of  substance,  or  is  that  which 
is  iii  something  else,  by  and  through  which  it  is  con- 
ceived. 

6.  God  is  a  being  absolutely  infinite  ;  a  substance  con- 
sisting of  infinite  attributes,  each  of  which  expresses 
His  eternal  and  infinite  essence. 

EXPLANATION. 

I  say  absolutely  infinite,  not  infinite  s7to geiiere—iox  of 
what  is  infinite  sno  genere  only,  the  attributes  are  not  in- 
finite but  finite  ;  whereas  what  is  infinite  absolutely 
contains  in  its  own  essence  everything  by  which  sub- 
stance can  be  expressed,  and  which  involves  no  im- 
possibility. 

7.  That  thing  is  '  free  '  which  exists  by  the  sole  neces- 
sity of  its  own  nature,  and  is  determined  in  its  opera- 
tion by  itself  only.  That  is  '  not  free  '  which  is  called 
into  existence  by  something  else,  and  is  determined  in 
its  operation  according  to  a  fixed  and  definite  method. 

8.  Eternity  is  existence  itself,  conceived  as  following 
necessarily  and  solely  from  the  definition  of  the  thing 
which  is  eternal. 

EXPLANATION. 

Because  existence  of  this  kind  is  conceived  as  an 
eternal  verity,  and,  therefore,  cannot  be  explained  by 
duration,  even  though  the  duration  be  without  begin- 
ning or  end. 


'o 


So  far  the  definitions ;  then  follow  the 


AXIOMS. 


1.  All  things  that  exist,  exist  either  themselves  or  in 
virtue  of  something  else. 

2.  What  wc  cannot  conceive  of  as  existing  m  virtue  of 
something  else,  we  must  conceive  through  and  in  itself. 


lo8  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

3.  From  a  given  cause  an  effect  necessarily  follows, 
and  if  tliere  be  no  given  cause  no  effect  can  follow. 

4.  Things  which  have  notliing  in  common  with  each 
other  cannot  be  understood  through  one  another — i.  e. 
the  conception  of  one  does  not  involve  the  conception  of 
the  other. 

5.  To  understand  an  effect  implies  that  we  under- 
stand the  cause  of  it. 

6.  A  true  idea  is  one  which  cortesponds  with  its 
ideate. 

7.  The  essence  of  anything  which  can  be  conceived 
as  non-exislent  does  not  involve  existence. 

Such  is  btir  metaphysical  outfit  of  simple 
ideas  with  which  to  start  upbn  olir  enterprise 
of  learning.  The  larger  number  of  them,  so 
far  from  being  simple,  must  be  absolutely  with- 
out meaning  to  persons  whose  minds  are  un- 
disciplined in  metaphysical  abstraction ;  they 
become  only  mtelligible  propositions  as  we 
look  back  upon  them  with  the  light  of  the  sys- 
tem which  they  are  supposed  to  contain. 

Although,  however,  we  may  justly  quarrel 
with  siich  unlooked-for  difficulties,  the  import- 
ant question,  after  all,  is  not  of  the  obscurity 
of  these  axioms,  but  of  their  truth.  Many 
things  in  all  the  sciences  are  obscure  to  an  un- 
practised understanding,  which  are  ttue  enough 
and  clear  enough  to  people  acquainted  with  the 
subjects,  and  they  may  be  fairly  made  the 
foundations  of  a  scientific  system,  although 
rudimentary  students  must  be  contented  to  ac- 
cept them  upon  faith.  Of  course,  also,  it  is 
entirely  competent  to  Spinoza,  or  to  any  one, 
to  define  the  terms  which  he  intends  to  use 
just  as  he  pleases,  provided  it  be  understood 
that  any  conclusions  which  he  derives  out  of 
them  apply  only  to  the  ideas  so  defined,  and 
not  to  any  supj)osed  object  existing  which  cor- 
responds with  them.  Euclid  defines  his  trian- 
gles and  circles,  and  discovers  that  to  figures 
so  described,  certain  properties  previously  un- 
known may  be  proved  to  belong.  But  as  in 
nature  there  are  no  such  things  as  triangles 
and  circles  exactly  answering  the  definition,  his 


SPINOZA.  log 

conclusions,  as  applied  to  actually  existing  ob- 
jects, are  either  not  true  at  all  or  only  proxi- 
mately so.  Whether  it  be  possible  to  bridge 
over  the  gulf  between  existing  things  and  the 
abstract  conception  of  them,  as  Spinoza  at- 
tempts to  do,  we  shall  presently  see.  It  is  a 
royal  road  to  certainty  if  it  be  a  practicable 
one;  but  we  cannot  say  that  we  ever  met  any 
one  who  could  say  honestly  Spinoza's  reason- 
ings had  convinced  him  ;  and  power  of  demon- 
stration, like  all  other  pov.'crs,  can  be  judged 
only  by  its  effects.  Does  it  prove  ?  does  it 
produce  conviction  ?     If  not,  it  is  nothing. 

We  need  not  detain  our  readers  among  these 
abstractions.  The  power  of  Spinozism  does 
not  lie  so  remote  from  ordinary  appreciation 
or  we  should  long  ago  have  heard  the  last  of  it. 
Like  all  other  systems  which  have  attracted 
followers,  it  addresses  itself,  not  to  the  logical 
intellect,  but  to  the  imagination,  which  it 
affects  to  set  aside.  We  refuse  to  submit  to 
the  demonstrations  by  which  it  thrusts  itself 
upon  our  reception  ;  but  regarding  it  as  a 
whole,  as  an  attempt  to  explain  the  nature  of 
the  world  of  which  we  are  a  part,  we  can  still 
ask  ourselves  how  far  the  attempt  is  success- 
ful. Some  account  of  these  things  we  know 
that  there  must  be,  and  the  curiosity  which 
asks  the  question  regards  itself,  of  course,  as 
competent  in  some  degree  to  judge  of  the  an- 
swer to  it. 

Before  proceeding,  however,  to  regard  this 
philosophy  in  the  aspect  in  which  it  is  really 
powerful,  we  must  clear  our  wny  through  the 
fallacy  of  the  method. 

The  system  is  evolved  in  a  series  of  theo- 
rems in  severely  demonstrative  order  out  of 
the  definitions  and  axioms  which  we  have 
translated.  To  propositions  i — 6  we  have 
nothing  to  object  ;  they  will  not,  probably, 
convey  any  very  clear  ideas,  but  they  are  so 
far  purely  abstract,  and  seem  to  follow  (as 
far   as  we    can   speak  of    '  following  '  in  such 


no  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

subjects)  by  fair  reasonins^.  *  Substance 
is  prior  in  nature  to  its  al'fections.'  '  Sub- 
stances with  different  attributes  have  noth- 
notlrlng  in  common,'  and,  therefore,  '  one  can- 
not be  the  cause  of  the  other.'  '  Things  really 
distinct  are  distinguished  bv  difference  either  of 
attribute  or  mode  (there  being  nothing  else  by 
which  they  can  be  distinguished),  and,  there- 
fore, because  things  modally  distinguished  do 
not  qucc  substance  dilTer  from  one  another, 
there  cannot  be  more  than  one  substance  of 
the  same  attribute.  Therefore  (let  us  remind 
our  readers  that  we  are  among  what  Spinoza 
calls  notio?ics  siinplicissimas),  since  there  can- 
not be  two  substances  of  the  same  attribute, 
and  substances  of  different  attributes  cannot 
be  the  cause  one  of  the  other,  it  follows  that 
no  substance  can  be  produced  by  another 
substance.' 

The  existence  of  substance,  he  then  con- 
cludes, is  involved  in  the  nature  of  the  thing 
itself.  Substance  exists.  It  does  and  must. 
We  ask,  why  ?  and  we  are  answered,  because 
there  is  nothing  capable  of  producing  it,  and 
therefore  it  is  self-caused — /.  e.  by  the  first  de- 
finition the  essence  of  it  implies  existence  as 
part  of  the  idea.  It  is  astonishing  that  Spinoza 
should  not  have  seen  that  he  assumes  the  fact 
that  substance  does  exist  in  order  to  prove 
that  it  must.  If  it  cannot  be  produced  and 
exists,  then,  of  course,  it  exists  in  virtue  of  its 
own  nature.  But  supposing  it  does  not  exist, 
supposing  it  is  all  a  delusion,  the  proof  falls  to 
pieces.  We  have  to  fall  back  on  the  facts  of 
experience,  on  the  obscure  and  unscientific 
certainty  that  the  thing  which  we  call  the 
world,  and  the  personalities  which  we  call  our- 
selves, are  a  real  substantial  something,  be- 
fore we  find  ground  of  any  kind  to  stand  upon. 
Conscious  of  the  infirmity  of  his  demonstra- 
tion, Spinoza  winds  round  it  and  round  it,  add- 
ing proof  to  proof,  but  never  escaping  the 
same  vicious  circle  :  substance  exists  because  it 


SPINOZA.  1 1 1 

exists,  and  the  ultimate  experience  of  existence, 
so  far  from  being  of  that  clear  kind  which  can 
be  accepted  as  an  axiom,  is  the  most  confused 
of  all  our  sensations.  What  is  existence  ?  and 
what  is  that  something  which  we  say  exists  ? 
Thinsrs — essences — existences  !  these  are  but 
the  vague  names  with  which  faculties,  con- 
structed only  to  deal  with  conditional  pheno- 
mena, disguise  their  incapacity.  The  world  in 
the  Hindoo  legend  was  supported  upon  the 
back  of  the  tortoise.  It  was  a  step  between 
the  world  and  nothingness,  and  served  to  cheat 
the  imagination  with  ideas  of  a  fictitious  rest- 
ing-place. 

If  any  one  affirms  (says  Spinoza)  that  he  has  a  clear, 
distinct — that  is  to  say,  a  true— idea  of  substance,  but 
that  nevertheless  he  is  uncertain  whether  any  such  sub- 
stance exist,  it  is  the  same  as  if  he  were  to  affirm  that 
he  had  a  true  idea,  but  yet  was  uncertain  whether  it  was 
not  false.  Or  if  he  says  that  substance  can  be  created, 
it  is  like  saying  that  a  false  idea  can  become  a  true 
idea — as  absurd  a  thing  as  it  is  possible  to  conceive;  and 
therefore  the  existence  of  substance,  as  well  as  the 
essence  of  it,  must  be  acknowledged  as  an  eteranl 
verity. 

It  is  again  the  same  story.  Spinoza  speaks 
of  a  clear  idea  of  substance  ;  but  he  has  not 
proved  that  such  an  idea  is  within  the  compass 
of  the  mind.  A  man's  own  notion  that  he  sees 
clearly,  is  no  proof  that  he  really  sees  clearly  ; 
and  the  distinctness  of  a  definition  in  itself  is 
no  evidence  that  it  corresponds  adequately 
with  the  object  of  it.  No  doubt  a  man  who 
professes  to  have  an  idea  of  substance  as  an 
existing  thing,  cannot  doubt,  as  long  as  he  has 
it,  that  substance  so  exists.  This  is  merely  to 
say  that  as  long  as  a  man  is  certain  of  this  or 
that  fact,  he  has  no  doubt  of  it.  But  neither 
his  certainty  nor  Spinoza's  will  be  of  any  use 
to  a  man  who  has  no  such  idea,  and  who  can- 
not recognize  the  lawfulness  of  the  method  by 
which  it  is  arrived  at. 

From  the  self-existing  substance  it  is  a  short 


1 1 2  HISTORICAL  ESS  A  YS. 

Step  to  the  existence  of  God.  After  a  few  more 
propositions,  following  one  another  with  the 
same  kind  of  coherence,  we  arrive  successively 
at  the  conclusion  that  there  is  but  one  sub- 
stance ;  that  this  substance  being  necessarily 
existent,  it  is  also  infinite  ;  that  it  is  there- 
fore identical  with  the  Being  who  had  been 
previously  defined  as  the  '  Ens  absolute  per- 
fectum.' 

Demonstrations  of  this  kind  were  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  period.  Descartes  had  set  the 
example  of  constructing  them,  and  was  followed 
by  Cudworth,  Clarke,  Berkeley,  and  many 
others  besides  Spinoza.  The  inconclusiveness 
of  the  method  may  perhaps  be  observed  most 
readily  in  the  strangely  opposite  conceptions 
formed  by  all  these  writers  of  the  nature  of 
that  Being  whose  existence  they  nevertheless 
agreed,  by  the  same  process,  to  gather  each 
out  of  their  ideas.  It  is  important,  however, 
to  examine  it  carefully,  for  it  is  the  very  key- 
stone of  the  Pantheistic  system. 

As  stated  by  Descartes,  the  argument 
stands  something  as  follows  : — God  is  an  all- 
perfect  lieing, — perfection  is  the  idea  which  we 
form  of  him  :  existence  is  a  mode  of  perfection, 
and  therefore  God  exists.  The  sophism  we 
are  told  is  only  apparent.  Existence  is  part  of 
the  idea — as  much  involved  in  it  as  the  equality 
of  all  lines  drawn  from  the  centre  to  the  cir- 
cumference of  a  circle  is  involved  in  the  idea 
of  a  circle,  A  non-existent  all-perfect  Being  is 
as  inconceivable  as  a  quadrilateral  triangle. 

It  is  sometimes  answered  that  in  this  way  we 
may  prove  the  existence  of  anything — Titans, 
Chima;ras,  or  Olympian  Gods  ;  we  have  but  to 
define  them  as  existing,  and  the  proof  is  com- 
plete. But,  this  objection  summarily  set  aside  ; 
none  of  those  beings  are  by  hypothesis  abso- 
lutely perfect,  and,  therefore,  of  their  existence 
we  can  conclude  nothing.  With  greater  justice, 
however,  we  may  say,  that  of  such  terms  as 
perfection  and  existence  we  know  too  little  to 


SPINOZA. 


"3 


speculate.  Existence  may  be  an  imperfection 
for  all  we  can  tell  ;  we  know  nothing  about 
the  matter.  Such  arguments  are  but  endless 
pditioncs  principii — like  the  self-devouring  ser- 
pent, resolving  themselves  into  nothing.  We 
wander  round  and  round  them,  in  the  hope  of 
finding  some  tangible  point  at  which  we  can 
seize  their  meaning  ;  but  we  are  presented 
everywhere  \\\\.\\  the  same  impracticable  sur- 
face, from  which  our  grasp  glides  off  in- 
effectual. 

Spinoza  himself,  however,  obviously  felt  an 
intense  conviction  of  the  validity  of  his  argu- 
ment. His  opinion  is  stated  with  sufficient 
distinctness  in  one  of  his  letters.  '  Nothing  is 
more  clear,'  he  writes  to  his  pupil  De  Vries, 
'  than  that,  on  the  one  hand,  everything  which 
exists  is  conceived  by  or  under  some  attribute 
or  other  ;  that  the  more  reality,  therefore,  a 
being  or  thing  has,  the  more  attributes  must  be 
assigned  to  it  ; '  '  and  conversely  '  (and  this  he 
calls  his  argHmc7itu7n palmarium  in  proof  of  the 
existence  of  God),  '  the  more  attributes  I  assign 
to  a  thing,  the  more  I  am  forced  to  conceive  it  as 
existing.'  Arrange  the  argument  how  we 
please,  we  shall  never  get  it  into  a  form  clearer 
than  this  : — The  more  perfect  a  thing  is,  the 
more  it  must  exist  (as  if  existence  could  admit 
of  more  or  less)  ;  and  therefore  the  all-perfect 
Being  must  exist  absolutely.  There  is  no  flaw, 
we  are  told,  in  the  reasoning  ;  and  if  we  are 
not  convinced,  it  is  from  the  confused  habits 
of  our  own  minds. 

Some  persons  may  think  that  all  arguments 
are  good  when  on  the  right  side,  and  that  it  is 
a  gratuitous  impertinence  to  quarrel  with  the 
proofs  of  a  conclusion  which  it  is  so  desirable 
that  all  should  receive.  As  yet,  however,  we 
are  but  inadequately  acquainted  with  the  idea 
attached  by  Spinoza  to  the  word  perfection  ; 
and  if  we  commit  ourselves  to  his  logic,  it  may 
lead  us  out  to  unexpected  consequences.  All 
such  reasonings  presume,  as  a  first  condition, 


114 


IIISTOKJCAL  ESSAYS. 


that  we  men  possess  faculties  capable  of  deal- 
ing with  absolute  ideas  ;  that  we  can  under- 
stand the  nature  of  thinsrs  external  to  ourselves 
as  they  really  are  in  their  absolute  relation  to 
one  another,  independent  of  our  own  concep- 
tion. The  question  immediately  before  us  is 
one  which  can  never  be  determined.  The 
truth  which  is  to  be  proved  is  one  which  we 
already  believe  ;  and  if,  as  we  believe  also,  our 
conviction  of  God's  existence  is  like  that  of 
our  own  existence,  intuitive  and  immediate, 
the  grounds  of  it  can  never  adequately  be 
analyzed  ;  we  cannot  say  exactly  what  they 
are,  and  therefore  we  cannot  say  what  they  are 
not.  Whatever  we  receive  intuitive]}^  we 
receive  without  proof  ;  and  stated  as  a  naked 
proposition,  it  must  involve  a  petitio  principii. 
We  have  a  right,  however,  to  object  at  once  to 
an  artrument  in  which  the  conclusion  is  more 
obvious  then  the  premises  ;  and  if  it  lead  on 
to  other  consequences  which  we  disapprove  in 
themselves,  we  reject  it  without  difficulty  or 
hesitation.  We  ourselves  believe  that  God  is, 
because  we  experience  the  control  of  a  '  power ' 
which  is  stronger  than  we  ;  and  our  instincts 
teach  us  so  much  of  the  nature  of  that  power 
as  our  own  relation  to  it  requires  us  to  know. 
God  is  the  being  to  whom  our  obedience  is 
due  ;  and  the  perfections  which  we  attribute 
to  Him  are  those  moral  perfections  which  are 
the  proper  object  of  our  reverence.  Strange 
to  say,  the  perfections  of  Spinoza,  which  appear 
so  clear  to  him,  are  without  any  moral  character 
whatever  :  and  for  men  to  speak  of  the  justice 
of  God,  he  tells  us,  is  but  to  see  in  Him  a  re- 
flection of  themselves  ;  as  if  a  triangle  were 
to  conceive  of  Him  as  anincJitcr  triaJii:^ularis, 
or  a  circle  to  give  Him  tiie  property  of  circu- 
larity." 

Having  arrived  at  existence,  we  next  find 
ourselves  among  ideas,  which  at  least  are  in- 
telligible, if  the  character  of  them  is  as  far  re- 
moved as  before   from  the   circle  of  ordinary 


SPINOZA.  115 

thought.  Nothing  exists  except  substance, 
the  attributes  under  which  substance  is  ex- 
pressed, and  the  modes  or  affections  of  those 
attributes.  There  is  but  one  substance  self- 
existent,  eternal,  necessary,  and  that  is  the 
absolutely  Infinite  all-perfect  Being.  Sub- 
stance cannot  produce  substance,  and  there- 
fore there  is  no  such  thing  as  creation  ;  and 
everything  which  exists  is  either  an  attribute 
of  God,  or  an  alTection  of  some  attribute  of 
Him,  modified  in  this  manner  or  in  that.  Be- 
yond Him  there  is  nothing,  and  nothing  like 
Him  or  equal  to  Him  ;  He  therefore  alone  in 
Himself  is  absolutely  free,  uninfluenced  by  any- 
thing, for  nothing  is  except  Himself ;  and  from 
Him  and  from  His  supreme  power,  essence,  in- 
telligence (for  these  words  mean  the  same 
thing),  all  things  have  necessarily  fiowed,  and 
will  and  must  flow  forever,  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  from  the  nature  of  a  triangle  it  follows, 
and  has  followed,  and  will  follow  from  eternity 
to  eternity,  that  the  angles  of  it- are  equal  to 
two  right  angles.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  an- 
alogy were  but  an  artificial  play  upon  words, 
and  that  it  was  only  metaphorically  that  in 
mathematical  demonstration  we  speak  of  one 
thing  as  following  from  another.  The  proper- 
ties of  a  curve  or  a  triangle  are  what  they  are 
at  all  times,  and  the  sequence  is  merely  in  the 
order  in  which  they  are  successively  known  to 
ourselves.  But  .according  to  Spinoza,  this  is 
the  only  true  sequence ;  and  what  we  call  the 
universe,  and  all  the  series  of  incidents  in  earth 
or  planet,  are  involved  formally  and  mathemat- 
ically in  the  definition  of  God. 

Each  attribute  is  infinite  suo  getierc ;  and  it 
is  time  that  we  should  know  distinctly  the 
meaning  which  Spinoza  attaches  to  that  impor- 
tant word.  Out  of  the  infinite  number  of  the 
attributes  of  God,  two  onl)',  he  says,  are  known 
to  us — 'extension,'  and  'thought,'  or  '  mind.' 
Duration,  even  though  it  be  without  beginning 
or  end,  is  not  an  attribute  ;  it  is  not  even  a  real 


Ii6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

thing.  Time  has  no  relation  to  Being,  con- 
ceived mathematically ;  it  would  be  absurd  to 
speak  of  circles  or  triangles  as  any  older  to- 
day than  they  were  at  the  beginning  of  the 
world.  These  and  everything  of  the  same  kind 
are  conceived,  as  Spinoza  rightly  says,  sub 
quadam  specie  ceteniitatis.  But  extension,  or 
substance  extended,  and  thought,  or  substance 
perceiving,  are  real,  absolute,  and  objective. 
We  must  not  confound  extension  with  body; 
for  though  body  be  a  mode  of  extension,  there 
is  extension  which  is  not  body,  and  it  is  infinite 
because  we  cannot  conceive  it  to  be  limited 
except  by  itself — or,  in  other  words,  to  be  lim- 
ited at  all.  And  as  it  is  with  extension,  so  it 
is  with  mind,  which  is  also  infinite  with  the  in- 
finity of  its  object.  Thus  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  creation,  or  no  beginning  or  end.  All 
things  of  which  our  faculties  are  cognizant  un- 
der one  or  other  of  these  attributes  are  pro- 
duced from  God,  and  in  Him  they  have  their 
being,  and  without  Him  they  would  cease  to 
be. 

Proceeding  by  steps  of  rigid  demonstration 
(and  most  admirably  indeed  is  the  form  of  the 
philosophy  adapted  to  the  spirit  of  it),  we  learn 
that  God  is  the  only  causa  libera ;  that  no 
other  thing  or  being  has  any  power  of  self-de- 
termination ;  all  moves  by  fixed  laws  of  causa- 
tion, motive  upon  motive,  act  upon  act ;  there 
is  no  free  will,  and  no.  contingency  ;  and  how- 
ever necessary  it  may  be  for  our  incapacity  to 
consider  future  things  as  in  a  sense  contingent 
(see  Iraclat.  Thcol.  l^olit.  cap.  iv.  sec.  4),  this 
is  but  one  of  the  thousand  convenient  de- 
ceptions which  v/e  are  obliged  to  employ  with 
ourselves.  God  is  \\\(t  causa  immanens  omnium  ; 
lie  is  not  a  personal  being  existing  apart  from 
the  universe  ;  but  Himself  in  His  own  reality, 
He  is  expressed  in  the  universe,  which  is  His 
living  garment.  Keeping  to  the  philosophical 
language  of  the  time,  Spinoza  preserves  the 
distinction  between  natura  naturans  and  natura 


SPINOZA.  1 1 7 

naturata.  The  first  is  being  in  itself  the  at- 
tributes of  substance  as  they  are  conceived 
simply  and  alone  ;  the  second  is  the  infinite 
series' of  modifications  which  follow  out  of  the 
properties  of  these  attributes.  And  thus  all 
which  is,  is  what  it  is  by  an  absolute  necessity, 
and  could  not  have  been  other  than  it  is.  God 
is  free,  because  no  causes  external  to  Himself 
have  power  over  Him  ;  and  as  good  men  are 
most  free  when  most  a  law  to  themselves,  so  it 
is  no  infringement  on  (iod's  freedom  to  say 
that  He  must  have  acted  as  he  has  acted,  but 
rather  He  is  absolutely  free  because  absolutely 
a  law  Himself  to  Himself. 

Here  ends  the  first  book  of  Spinoza's  Ethics 
— the  book  which  contains,  as  we  said,  the  no- 
tioncs  simplicissivias,  and  the  primary  and  rudi- 
mental  deductions  from  them.  His  Dei  natu- 
ram,  he  says,  in  his  lofty  confidence,  ej usque pro- 
pridates  cxplicui.  But,  as  if  conscious  that  his 
method  will  never  convince,  he  concludes  this 
portion  of  his  subject  with  an  analytical  appen- 
dix ;  not  to  explain  or  apologize,  but  to  show 
us  clearly,  in  practical  detail,  the  position  into 
which  he  has  led  us.  The  root,  we  are  told, 
of  all  philosophical  errors  lies  in  our  notion  of 
final  causes  ;  we  invert  the  order  of  nature,  and 
interpret  God's  action  through  our  own  ;  we 
speak  of  His  intentions,  as  if  He  were  a  man  ; 
we  assume  that  we  are  capable  of  measuring 
them,  and  finally  erect  ourselves,  and  our  own 
interests,  into  the  centre  and  criterion  of  all 
things.  Hence  arises  our  notion  of  evil.  If 
the  universe  be  what  this  philosophy  has  de- 
scribed it,  the  perfection  which  it  assigns  to 
God  is  extended  to  everything,  and  evil  is  of 
course  impossible  ;  there  is  no  shortcoming 
either  in  nature  or  in  man ;  each  person  and 
each  thing  is  exactly  what  it  has  the  power  to 
be,  and  nothing  more.  But  men  imagining  that 
all  things  exist  on  their  account,  and  perceiv- 
ing their  own  interests,  bodily  and  spiritual, 
capable  of  being  variously  affected,  have   con- 


ii8  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

ceived  these  opposite  influences  to  result  from 
opposite  and  contradictory  powers,  and  call 
what  contributes  to  their  advantage  good,  and 
whatever  obstructs  it,  evil.  For  our  conven- 
ience we  form  generic  conceptions  of  human 
excellence,  as  archetypes  after  which  to  strive  ; 
and  such  of  us  as  approach  nearest  to  such 
archetypes  are  supposed  to  be  virtuous,  and 
those  who  are  most  remote  from  them  to  be 
wicked,  But  such  generic  abstractions  are  but 
entia  imaginationis,  and  have  no  real  existence. 
In  the  eyes  of  God  each  thing  is  what  it  has 
the  means  of  being.  There  is  no  rebellion 
against  Him,  and  no  resistance  of  His  will  ; 
in  truth,  therefore,  there  neither  is  nor  can  be 
such  a  thing  as  a  bad  action  in  the  common 
sense  of  the  word.  Actions  are  good  or  bad, 
not  in  themselves,  but  as  compared  with  the 
nature  of  the  agent ;  what  we  censure  in  men, 
we  tolerate  and  even  admire  in  animals  ;  and 
as  soon  as  we  are  aware  of  our  mistake  in  as- 
signing to  man  a  power  of  free  volition,  our 
notion  of  evil  as  a  positive  thing  will  cease  to 
exist. 

If  I  am  asked  (concludes  Spinoza)  why  then  all  man- 
kind were  not  created  by  God,  so  as  to  be  governed 
solely  by  reason  ?  it  was  because,  I  reply,  there  was  to 
God  no  lack  of  matter  to  create  all  things  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest  grade  of  perfection  ;  or,  to  speak 
more  properly,  because  the  laws  of  God's  nature  were 
ample  enough  to  suffice  for  the  production  of  all  tilings 
which  can  be  conceived  by  an  Infinite  Intelligence. 

It  is  possible  that  readers  who  have  followed 
us  so  far  will  now  turn  away  from  a  philosophy 
which  issues  in  such  conclusions  ;  resentful, 
perhaps,  that  it  should  have  been  ever  laid 
before  them  at  all,  in  language  so  little  ex- 
pressive of  aversion  and  .  displeasure.  We 
must  claim,  however,  in  Spinoza's  name,  the 
right  which  he  claims  for  himself.  His  system 
must  be  judged  as  a  whole  ;  and  whatever  we 
may  think  ourselves  would  be  the  moral  effect 


SPTNOZA.  J  I  (J 

of  such  doctrines  if  they  were  generally  re- 
ceived, in  his  hands  and  in  his  heart  they  are 
worked  into  maxims  of  the  purest  and  loftiest 
morality.  And  at  least  we  are  bound  to  re- 
member that  some  account  of  this  great  mys- 
tery of  evil  there  must  be  ,  and  although  famili- 
arity with  commonly-received  explanations  may 
disguise  from  us  the  difficulties  with  which 
they  too,  as  well  as  that  of  Spinoza,  are  em- 
barrassed, such  difhculties  none  the  less  exist. 
The  fact  is  the  grand  perplexity,  and  for  our- 
selves we  acknowledge  that  of  all  theories 
about  it  Spinoza's  would  appear  to  us  the  least 
irrational,  setting  conscience,  and  the  voice  of 
conscience,  aside.  The  objections,  with  the 
replies  to  them,  are  well  drawn  out  in  the  cor- 
respondence with  William  de  Blyenburg.  It 
will  be  seen  at  once  with  how  little  justice  the 
denial  of  evil  as  a  positive  thing  can  be  called 
equivalent  to  denying  it  relatively  to  man,  or 
to  confusing  the  moral  distinctions  between 
virtue  and  vice. 

We  speak  (writes  Spinoza,  in  answer  to  Elyenburg, 
who  had  urged  something  of  the  kind),  we  speak  of  this 
or  that  man  having  done  a  wrong  thing,  when  we  com- 
pare him  with  a  general  standard  of  humanity  ;  but  in- 
asmuch as  God  neither  perceives  things  in  such  abstract 
manner,  nor  forms  to  Himself  such  generic  definitions, 
and  since  there  is  no  more  reality  in  anything  than  God 
has  assigned  to  it,  it  follows,  surely,  that  the  absence  of 
good  exists  only  in  respect  of  man's  understanding,  not 
in  respect  of  God's. 

If  this  be  so,  then  (replies  Blyenburg),  bad  men  fulfil 
God's  will  as  well  as  good. 

It  is  true  (Spinoza  answers)  they  fulfil  it,  yet  not  as 
the  good  nor  as  well  as  the  good,  nor  are  they  to  be 
compared  with  them.  The  better  a  thing  or  a  person 
be,  the  more  there  is  in  him  of  God's  spirit,  and  the 
more  he  expresses  God's  will ;  while  the  bad,  being 
without  that  divine  love  which  arises  from  the  knowl- 
edge of  God,  and  through  which  alone  we  are  called  tin  re- 
spect of  our  understandings)  his  servants,  are  but  as  in- 
struments in  the  hand  of  the  artificer — they  serve  uncon- 
sciously, and  are  consumed  in  their  service. 

Spinoza,  after  all,  is  but  stating  in  philosoph- 


I20  HISTORICAL  ESSAVS, 

ical  language  the  extreme  doctrine  of  Grace; 
and  St.  Paul,  if  we  interpret  his  real  belief  by 
the  one  passage  so  often  quoted,  in  which  he 
compares  us  to  '  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter, 
who  maketh  one  vessel  to  honor  and  another 
to  dishonor,'  may  be  accused  with  justice  of 
having  held  the  same  opinion.     If  Calvinism 
be  pressed  to  its  logical  consequences,  it  either 
becomes  an  intolerable  falsehood,  or  it  resolves 
itself  into  the  philosophy   of  Spinoza.     It   is 
monstrous  to  call  evil  a  positive  thing,  and  to 
assert,  in  the  same  breath,  that  God  has  pre- 
determined it — to  tell  us  that  He  has  ordained 
what    He   hates,  and  hates  what  He  has  or- 
dained.    It   is    incredible    that  we  should  be 
without  power  to  obey  Him    except    through 
His  free   grace,  and  yet  be  held  responsible 
for    our   failures   when    that   grace   has   been 
withheld.     And  it  is  idle  to  call  a  philosopher 
sacrilegious  who  has  but  systematized  the  faith 
which   so  many  beieve,  and  cleared  it  of  its 
most  hideous  features. 

Spinoza  flinches  from  nothing,  and  disguises 
no  conclusions  either  from  himself  or  from  his 
readers.  We  believe  for  ourselves  that  logic 
has  no  business  with  such  questions  ;  that  the 
answer  to  them  lies  in  the  conscience  and  not 
in  the  intellect.  Spinoza  thinks  otherv.'ise  ; 
and  he  is  at  least  true  to  the  guide  which  he 
has  chosen.  JMyenburg  presses  him  with  in- 
stances of  monstrous  crime,  such  as  bring  home 
to  the  heart  the  natural  horror  of  it.  He  speaks 
of  Nero's  murder  of  Agripplna,  and  asks  if  God 
can  be  called  the  cause  of  such  an  act  as  that. 

God  (replies  Gpinoza,  calmly)  is  the  cause  of  all  things 
which  have  reality.  If  you  can  show  that  evil,  errors, 
crimes  express  any  real  things,  I  agree  readily  that  God 
is  the  cause  of  them  ;  but  I  conceive  myself  to  have 
proved  that  what  constitutes  the  essence  of  evil  is  not  a 
real  thing  at  all,  and  therefore  that  God  cannot  be  the 
cause  of  it.  Nero's  matricide  was  not  a  crime,  in  so  far 
:v:>  it  was  a  positive  outward  act.  Orestes  also  killed  his 
mother;  and  we  do  not  judge  Orestes  as  we  judge  Nero. 
The  crime  of  the  latter  lay  in  his  being  without  i)ity, 


SPINOZA  12  1 

without  obedience,  without  natural  affection — none  of 
whicii  things  express  any  positive  essence,  but  the  al)- 
sence  of  it ;  and  therefore  God  was  not  the  cause  of 
these,  although  He  was  the  cause  of  the  act  and  the  in- 
tention. 

Lut  once  for  all  (he  adds),  this  aspect  of  things  will 
remain  intolerable  and  unintelligible  as  long  as  the  com- 
mon notions  of  free  will  remain  unremoved. 

And  of  course,  and  we  shall  all  confess  it,  if 
these  notions  are  as  false  as  Spinoza  supposes 
them — if  we  have  no  power  to  be  anything  but 
what  we  are,  there  neither  is  nor  can  be  such 
a  thing  as  moral  evil ;  and  what  we  call  crimes 
will  no  more  involve  a  violation  of  the  will  of 
God,  they  will  no  more  impair  His  moral 
attributes  if  we  suppose  Him  to  have  willed 
them,  than  the  same  actions,  whether  of  lust, 
ferocity,  or  cruelty,  in  the  inferior  animals. 
There  will  be  but,  as  Spinoza  says,  an  infinite 
gradation  in  created  things,  the  poorest  life  be- 
ing more  than  none,  the  meanest  active  dispo- 
sition something  better  than  -inertia,  and  the 
smallest  exercise  of  reason  better  than  mere 
ferocity.  '  The  Lord  has  made  all  things  for 
Himself,  even  the  wicked  for  the  day  of  evil.' 

The  moral  aspect  of  the  matter  will  be  more 
clear  as  we  proceed.  We  pause,  however,  to 
notice  one  difficulty  of  a  metaphysical  kind, 
which  is  best  disposed  of  in  passing.  What- 
ever obscurity  may  lie  about  the  thing  which 
we  call  Time  (philosophers  not  being  able  to 
agree  what  it  is,  or  whether  properly  it  is  any- 
thing), the  words  past,  present,  future,  do  un- 
doubtedly convey  some  definite  idea  with  them  : 
things  will  be  which  are  not  yet,  and  have 
been  which  are  no  longer.  Now,  if  everything 
which  exists  be  a  necessary  mathematical  con- 
sequence from  the  nature  or  definition  of  the 
One  Being,  we  cannot  see  how  there  can  be 
any  time  but  the  present,  or  how  past  and 
future  have  room  for  a  meaning.  God  is,  and 
therefore  all  properties  of  Him  are,  just  as 
every  property  of  a  circle  exists  in  it  as  soon 
as  the  circle  exists.     We  may  if  we-  like  for 


122  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

convenience,  throw  our  theorems  into  the 
future,  and  say,  e.  g:  that  if  two  lines  in  a 
circle  cut  each  other,  the  rectangle  under  the 
parts  of  the  one  ?<:'/// equal  tliat  under  the  parts 
of  the  other.  But  we  only  mean  in  reality  that 
these  rectangles  are  equal ;  and  the/ufure  re- 
lates only  to  our  knowledge  of  the  fact.  Al- 
lowing, however,  as  much  as  we  please,  that 
the  condition  of  England  a  hundred  years 
hence  lies  already  in  embryo  in  existing  causes, 
it  is  a  paradox  to  say  that  such  condition  exists 
already  in  the  sense  in  which  the  properties  of 
the  circle  exist ;  and  yet  Spinoza  insists  on  the 
illustration. 

It  is  singular  that  he  should  not  have  noticed 
the  difficulty  ;  not  that  either  it  or  the  answer 
to  it  (which  no  doubt  would  have  been  ready 
enough)  are  likely  to  interest  any  person  except 
metaphysicians,  a  class  of  thinkers,  happily, 
which  is  rapidly  diminishing. 

We  proceed  to  more  important  matters — to 
Spinoza's  detailed  theory  of  nature  as  exhibited 
in  man  and  in  man's  mind.  His  theory  for  its 
bold  ingenuity  is  by  far  the  most  remarkable 
which  on  this  dark  subject  has  ever  been  pro- 
posed. Whether  we  can  believe  it  or  not,  is 
another  question  ;  yet  undoubtedly  it  provides 
a  solution  for  every  difficulty  ;  it  accepts  with 
equal  welcome  the  extremes  of  materialism  and 
of  spiritualism  :  and  if  it  be  the  test  of  the 
soundness  of  a  philosophy  that  it  will  explain 
phenomena  and  reconcile  contradictions,  it  is 
hard  to  account  for  the  fact  that  a  system  which 
bears  such  a  test  so  admirably,  should  neverthe- 
less be  so  incredible  as  it  is. 

Most  people  have  heard  of  the  '  Harmonic 
Prddtablie  '  of  Leibnitz  ;  it  is  borrowed  without 
acknowledgment  from  Spinoza,  and  adapted 
to  the  Leibnitzian  philosophy.  'Man,'  says 
Leibnitz, '  is  composed  of  mind  and  body  ;  but 
what  is  mind  and  what  is  bodv,  and  what  is 
their  union  }  Substances  so  o]5posite  in  kind 
cannot  effect  one  another ;  mind  cannot  act  on 


SPINOZA.  1 23 

matter,  or  matter  upon  mind  ;  and  the  appear- 
ance of  their  reciprocal  operation  is  an  appear- 
ance only  and  a  delusion."  A  delusion  so 
general,  however,  required  to  be  accounted 
for;  and  Leibnitz  accounted  for  it  by  suppos- 
ing that  God,  in  creating  a  world  composed  of 
material  and  spiritual  phenomena,  ordained 
that  these  several  phenomena  should  proceed 
from  the  beginning  in  parallel  lines  side  by 
side  in  a  constantly  corresponding  harmony. 
The  sense  of  seeing  results,  it  appears  to  us, 
from  the  formation  of  a  picture  upon  the 
retina.  The  motion  of  the  arm  or  the  leg  ap- 
pears to  result  from  an  act  of  will ;  but  in 
either  case  we  mistake  coincidence  for  causa- 
tion. Between  substances  so  wholly  alien 
there  can  be  no  intercommunion ;  and  we 
only  suppose  that  the  object  seen  produces 
the  idea,  and  that  the  desire  produces  the 
movement,  because  the  phenomena  of  matter 
and  the  phenomena  of  spirit  are  so  contrived 
as  to  flow  always  in  the  same  order  and 
sequence.  This  hypothesis,  as  coming  from 
Leibnitz,  has  been,  if  not  accepted,  at  least 
listened  to  respectfully ;  because  while  taking 
it  out  of  its  proper  place,  he  contrived  to  graft 
it  upon  Christianity  ;  and  succeeded,  with  a 
sort  of  speculative  legerdemain,  in  making  it 
appear  to  be  in  harmony  with  revealed  religion. 
Disguised  as  a  philosophy  of  Predestination, 
and  connected  with  the  Christian  doctrine  of 
Retribution,  it  steps  forward  with  a  air  of  un- 
conscious innocence,  as  if  interfering  with 
nothing  which  Christians  generally  believe. 
And  yet,  leaving  as  it  does  no  larger  scope  for 
liberty  or  responsibility  than  when  in  the 
hands   of   Spinoza,*  Leibnitz,  in   our   opinion, 

*  Since  these  words  were  written  a  l)ook  has  ap- 
peared in  Paris  bv  an  able  disciple  of  Leibnitz,  which  al- 
though it  docs  not  lead  us  to  modify  the  opinion  ex- 
pressed in  them,  yet  obliges  us  to  give  our  reasons  for 
speaking  as  we  do,     M.  de   Careil  t  has  discovered  in- 


t  Refutation  I)udi!e  de  Spinoza.     Par  Leibnitz.      /';-/- 
cedce  d'une  Memoin;  par  Foucher  r''^  <"arcil.  Paris.  1854^ 


124 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


has  only  succeeded  in  making  it  infinitely 
more  revolting.  Spinoza  could  not  regard  the 
bad  man  as  an  object  of  Divine  anger  and  a 
subject  of  retributory  punishment.      He   was 

the  library  at  Hanover,  a  MS,  in  the  handwriting  of 
Leibnitz,  containing  a  scries  of  remarks  on  the  book  of 
a  certain  John  Wachter.  It  does  not  appear  who  this 
John  Wachter  was,  nor  by  what  accident  he  came  to 
have  so  distinguished  a  critic.  If  we  may  judge  by  the 
extracts  at  present  before  us,  he  seems  to  have  been  an 
absurd  and  extravagant  person,  who  had  attempted  to 
combine  the  theology  of  the  Cabbala  with  the  very  little 
which  he  was  able  to  understand  of  the  philosophy  of 
Spinoza;  and,  as  far  as  he  is  concerned,  neither  his 
writings  nor  the  reflections  upon  them  are  of  interest  to 
any  human  being.  The  extravagance  of  Spinoza's  fol- 
lowers, however,  furnished  Leibnitz  with  an  opportunity 
of  noticing  the  points  on  which  he  most  disapproved  of 
Spinoza  himself;  these  few  notices  M,  de.  Careil  has 
now  for  the  first  time  published  as  The  Refutation  of 
Spitiozii,  by  Leibnitz.  They  are  exceedingly  brief  and 
scanty  ;  and  the  writer  of  them  would  assuredly 
have  hesitated  to  describe  an  imperfect  criticism  by  so 
ambitious  a  title.  The  modern  editor,  however  must 
be  alhiwed  the  privilege  of  a  worshipper,  and  we  will 
iiot  quarrel  with  him  for  an  exaggerated  estimate  of 
what  his  master  had  accomplished.  We  are  indebted 
to  his  enthusiasm  for  what  is  at  least  a  curious  dis- 
covery, and  we  will  not  qualify  the  gratitude  which  he 
has  earned  by  industry  and  good  will.  A'  the  same 
time,  the  notes  themselves  confirm  the  opinion  whicl^ 
we  have  always  entertained,  that  Leibnitz  did  not  un- 
derstand Si)inoza.  Leibnitz  did  not  understand  him, 
and  the  followers  of  Leibnitz  do  not  understand  him 
now.  If  he  were  no  more  than  what  he  js  described  in 
the  book  before  us — if  his  metaphysics  were  '  miserable,' 
if  his  philosophy  was  absurd,  and  he  himself  nothing 
more  than  a  second-rate  disciple  of  Pescartcs — we  can 
assure  M.  dc  Careil  that  we  should  long  ago  have  heard 
the  last  of  him. 

Tlicre  must  be  something  else,  something  very  differ- 
ent from  this,  to  explain  the  position  which  he  holds  in 
Germany,  or  the  fascination  which  his  writings  exerted 
over  such  minds  as  those  of  Lessing  or  of  Gothe; 
the  fact  of  so  enduring  an  influence  is  more  than 
a  sufficient  answer  to  mere  depreciating  criticism. 
This,  however,  is  not  a  point  which  there  is  any  us 
in  pressing.  Our  present  business  is  to  justify  the 
two  assertions  which  we  have  made.  First,  that 
Leibnitz  borrowed  his  TltcoryofthellnrmonieVreetablie 
from  Spinoza,  without  acknowledgment  ;  and,  secondly, 
that  this  theory  is  quite  as  inconsistent  with  religion  as 


SPINOZA. 


»2S 


not  a  Christian,  and  made  no  pretension  to  be 
considered  such  ;  and  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  rep^ard  the  actions  of  a  being  which,  both 
with  Leibnitz  aiul  himself,  is  (to   use  liis   own 

is  that  of  Spinoza,  and  only  ditfers  from  it  in  disguish- 
ing  its  real  cliaractcr. 

First  for  the  Harmonic  Prcetahlic.  Spinoza's  Ethics 
ajjpcared  in  1677-;  and  we  know  that  they  were  read  by 
Leibnitz.  In  1696,  Leibnitz  announced  as  a  discovery 
of  his  own,  a  Theory  of  The  Com?nti)iication  of  Sub- 
stances, which  lie  illustrates  in  the  following  manner  : — 

'  Vous  ne  comprcncz  pas,  dites-vous,  comment  jeponr- 
roisi^rouvc,  ceqne  j'ai  avance  touchant  la  communication 
ou  i'iiarmonie  de  deux  substances  aussi  differentes  que 
I'amc  ct  le  corps  ?  II  est  vrai  que  je  crois  en  avoir 
trouve  lemoven;  et  voici  comment  je  pretends  vous 
satisfairc.  Figurez-vous  deux  horlogcs  ou  montrcs  qui 
s'accordent  parfaitement.  Or  cela  se  pent  fairc  de  trois 
manieres.  La  le  consiste  dans  une  influence  mutuelle. 
La  2(;  est  d'y  attachcr  un  ouvricr  habile  qui  les  redressc, 
ct  les  mette  d'accord  i  tons  moments.  La  32  est  de  fabri- 
quer  ces  deux  j^endules  avec  tant  d'art  ct  de  justcssc, 
qu'on  sc  ))uissc  assurer  de  leur  accord  dans  la  suite. 
Mettez  maintenant  I'tme  et  le  corps  'e  la  place  de  ces 
deux  pendules;  Icur  accord  pent  arriver  Tunc  de  ces 
trois  manieres.  La  voye  d'influcnce  est  celle  de  la 
philosophic  vulgaire;  mais  comme  Ton  nesauroit  conce- 
voir  des  jiarticulcs  matcrielles  qui  ])uissent  passer  d'une 
de  ces  substances  dans  I'autrc,  il  faut  aliandonner  ce 
sentiment.  La  voye  de  I'assistance  continuelle  du  Crea- 
teur  est  celle  du  systeme  des  causes  occasionnelles;  mais 
je  liens  que  c'est  faire  intcrvenir  Deus  ex  machinfi  dans 
une  chose  naturelle  et  ordinaire,  on  selon  la  raison  il  ne 
doit  concourir,  que  de  la  maniere  qu'il  concourt  a  toutes 
les  autrcs  choscs  naturelles.  Ainsi  il  ne  reste  que  men 
hypothese;  e'cst-a-dire  que  la  voye  de  I'harmonic.  Dien 
a  fait  des  le  commencement  chacunc  de  ces  deux  sul>- 
stances  de  telle  nature,  qu'en  ne  suivant  que  ces  propres 
loix  qu'elle  a  re9ues  avec  son  ctre,  elle  s'accorde  pour- 
tant  avec  I'autre  tout  comme  s'il  y  avoit  une  influence 
mutuelle,  ou  comme  si  Dieu  y  mettoit  toujours  la  main 
au-delu  de  son  concoursgem-ral.  y\pres  cclajc  n'ai  pas 
besoin  de  ricn  proUver  a  niuins  qu'on  ne  vcuille  cxiger 
que  je  prouve  que  Dieu  est  assez  habile  pour  sc  servir 
de  ceite  artifice/  etc. — Leibnitz,  Opera,  p.  133.  lier- 
)in  edition,  1840. 

Iieibnitz,  as  we  have  said,  attempts  to  reconcile  his 
system  with  Christianity,  and  therefore,  of  course,  this 
theory  of  the  relation  f>f  mind  and  bndv  wears  a  very 
different  aspect  under  his  treatment,  from  what  it  wears 
under  that  of  Spinoza.  But  Spinoza  and  Leibnitz  both 
agree  in  this  one  peculiar  conception  in  which  they  differ 


126  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

expression)  an  automaton  spirituals,  as  deserv- 
ing a  fiery  indignation  and  everlasting  ven- 
geance. 

'  Deus,'    according  to    Spinoza's  definition, 

from  .ill  other  philosophers  before  or  after  them — that 
iniml  and  body  liavc  no  direct  communication  with  each 
other,  and  that  the  ])lienomena  of  them  merely  corre- 
spond. M.  de  Careil  s.iys  they  both  borrowed  it  from 
Descartes;  but  that  is  impossible.  Descartes  held  no 
snch  opinion  ;  it  was  the  precise  point  of  disagreement 
at  which  Spinoza  parted  from  him;  and  therefore,  since 
in  i)oint  of  date  Spinoza  had  the  advantage  of  Leibnitz, 
and  we  know  that  Leibnitz  was  acquainted  with  his 
writings,  we  must  either  suppose  that  he  was  directly 
indebted  to  Spinoza  for  an  obligation  which  he  ought  to 
have  acknowledged,  or  else,  which  is  extremely  improb- 
able, that  having  re.id  Spinoza  and  forgotten  him,  he 
afterwards  re-originated  for  himself  one  of  the  most 
singular  and  ])cculiar  notions  which  was  ever  offered  to 
the  belief  of  mankind. 

So  much  for  the  first  point,  which,  after  all,  is  but 
of  little  moment.  It  is  more  important  to  ascertain 
whether,  in  the  hands  of  Leibnitz,  this  theory  can  be  any 
better  reconciled  with  what  is  commonly  meant  by  re- 
ligion; whether,  that  is,  the  ideas  of  obedience  and  dis- 
oijcdiencc,  merit  and  demerit,  judgment  and  retribution, 
have  any  proper  place  under  it.  .Spinoza  makes  no  pre- 
tension to  anything  of  the  kind,  and  openly  declares  that 
these  ideas  are  ideas  merely,  and  human  mistakes. 
Leibnitz,  in  opposition  to  him,  endeavors  to  re-establish 
them  in  the  following  manner.  He  conceives  that  the 
system  of  the  universe  has  been  arranged  and  predeter- 
mined from  the  moment  at  which  it  was  launched  into 
])eing  ;  from  the  moment  at  which  God  selected  it,  with 
all  its  details,  as  the  best  which  could  exist  ;  but  that  it 
is  carried  on  by  the  action  of  individual  creatures  (mo- 
nads as  he  calls  them)  which,  though  necessarily  obey- 
ing the  laws  of  their  existence,  yet  obey  them  with  a 
character  of  spont.ineity,'  which  although '.automata,' 
are  yet  voluntary  agents;  and  therefore,  by  the  consent 
of  their  hearts  to  their  acti(jns,  entitle  themselves  to 
moral  jiraise  or  moral  censure.  The  question  is, 
whether  by  the  mere  assertion  of  the  co-existence  of 
these  opposite  qualities  in  the  monad  man,  he  has 
l)roved  that  such  qualities  can  co-exist.  In  our  opinion, 
it  is  like  speaking  of  a  circular  ecli])sc,  or  of  a  quadrila- 
teral triangle,  'i'here  is  a  plain  dilemma  in  llitse  mat- 
ters from  which  nr>  ])hilosopliy  can  extricate  itself.  If 
men  can  incur  guilt,  their  actions  might  be  other  than 
they  are.  If  they  cannot  act  otherwise  than  they  do, 
they  cannot  incur  guilt.  So  at  le.ist  it  appears  to  us; 
yet,  in    the  darkness    of  our  knowledge,  we   would  not 


SPINOZA. 


127 


'est  ens  constans  infinitis  attributis  quorum 
ununiquodquc  aiternam  et  infinitam  essentiam 
exprirnit.'  Under  each  of  these  attributes  in- 
finita  scqiiuntur,  and  everything  which  an  in- 
finite intelligence  can  conceive,  and  an  infinite 
power  can  produce, — everything  which  follows 
as  a  possibility  out  of  the  Divine  nature, — all 
things  which  have  been,  and  are,  and  will  be, 
— find  expression  and  actual  existence,  not 
under  one  attribute  only,  but  under  each  and 
every  attribute.     I^anguage  is  so  ill  adapted  to 

coni])lain  merely  of  a  theor)',  and  if  our  earthly  life  were 
all  in  all,  and  the  grave  remained  the  extreme  horizon 
of  our  hopes  and  fears,  the  J/armoiiie  J'reeial'lic'  might 
be  tolerated  as  credible,  and  admired  as  ingenious  and 
beautiful.  It  is  when  forcibly  attached  to  a  creed  of  the 
future,  with  which  it  has  no  natural  connection,  that  it 
assumes  its  repulsive  features.  The  world  may  be  in 
the  main  good;  while  the  good,  from  the  unknown  con- 
dition of  its  existence,  may  be  impossible  withf)ut  somfe 
intermixture  of  evil;  and  although  Leibnitz  was  at  times 
staggered  even  himself  by  the  misery  and  wickedness 
which  he  witnessed,  and  was  driven  to  comfort  Ixjmself 
with  the  reflection  that  this  earth  might  be  but  onfe 
world  in  the  midst  of  the  universe,  and  perhaps  the  sin- 
gle chequered  exception  in  an  infinity  of  stainless  globes, 
yet  we  would  not  quarrel  with  a  hypothesis  l)ecause  it 
was  imperfect;  it  might  pass  as  a  possible  conjecture  on 
a  dark  subject,  when  nothing  better  than  conjecture  was 
attainable. 

But  as  soon  as  wc  are  told  that  the  evil  in  these  hu- 
man '  automata'  being  a  necessary  condition  of  this 
world  which  (led  has  called  into  being,  is  yet  infinitely 
detestable  to  God;  that  the  creatures  who  suffer  under 
the  accursed  necessity  of  committing  sin  are  infinitely 
guilty  in  (rod's  eyes,  for  doing  what  they  have  no 
power  to  avoid,  and  may  therefore  be  justly  punished 
in  everlasting  fire;  we  recoil  against  the  paradox. 

No  disciple  of  Leibnitz  will  maintain,  that  unless  he 
had  found  this  belief  in  an  eternity  of  penal  retribution 
an  article  of  the  popular  creed,  such  a  doctrine  would 
liave  formed  a  natural  appendage  of  his  system;  and  if 
M.  de  Careil  desires  to  know  why  the  influence  of 
Spinoza,  whose  genius  he  considers  so  insignificant,  has 
been  so  deep  and  so  enduring,  while  Leibnitz  has  only 
secured  for  himself  a  mere  admiration  of  his  talents,  it 
is  because  Spinoza  was  not  afraid  to  be  consistent,  even 
at  the  price  of  the  world's  reprobation,  and  refused  to 
]nirchase  the  applause  of  his  own  age  at  the  sacrifice  of 
sincerity. 


128  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

explain  such  a  system,  that  even  to  state  it 
accurately  is  all  but  impossible,  and  analogies 
can  only  remotely  suggest  what  such  expres- 
sions mean.  But  it  is  as  if  it  were  said  that  the 
same  thought  might  be  expressed  in  an  inlinite 
variety  of  languages  ;  and  not  in  words  only, 
but  in  action,  in  painting,  in  sculpture,  in 
music,  in  any  form  of  any  kind  which  can  be 
employed  as  a  means  of  spiritual  embodiment. 
Of  all  these  infinite  attributes,  two  only,  as  we 
said,  are  known  to  us — extension  and  thought. 
Material  phenomena  are  phenomena  of  exten- 
sion ;  and  to  every  modification  of  extension 
an  idea  corresponds  under  the  attribute  of 
thought.  Out  of  such  a  compound  as  this  is 
formed  man,  composed  of  body  and  mind  ;  two 
parallel  and  correspondent  modifications  eter- 
nally answering  one  another.  And  not  man 
only,  but  all  other  beings  and  things  are 
similarly  formed  and  similarly  animated  ;  the 
anima  or  mind  of  each  varying  according  to 
the  complicity  of  the  organism  of  its  material 
counterpart.  Although  body  does  not  think, 
nor  affect  the  mind's  power  of  thinking,  and 
mind  does  not  control  body,  nor  communicate 
to  it  either  motion  or  rest  or  anv  influence  from 
itself,  yet  body  with  all  its  properties  is  the 
object  or  ideate  of  mind  :  whatsoever  body 
does,  mind  perceives  ;  and  the  greater  the  en- 
ergizing power  of  the  first,  the  greater  the 
perceiving  power  of  the  second.  And  this  is 
not  because  they  are  adapted  one  to  the  other 
by  some  inconceivable  preordinating  power, 
but  because  mind  and  body  are  iinaet  eadcfn  res, 
the  one  absolute  being  affected  in  one  and  the 
same  manner,  but  expressed  under  several  at- 
tributes;  the  modes  and  affections  of  each  at- 
tribute having  that  being  for  their  cause,  as  he 
exists  under  that  attribute  of  which  they  arc 
modes,  and  no  other  ;  idea  being  caused  by 
idea,  and  body  affected  by  body  ;  the  image  on 
the  retina  being  produced   by  the   object   re- 


SPINOZA.  i2c) 

fleeted  upon  it,  the  idea  or  image  in  our  minds 
by  the  idea  of  tiiat  oliject,  (S:c.  &C. 

A  solution  too  remote  from  all  ordinary  ways 
of  thinking  on  these  matters  is  so  difficult  to 
grasp,  that  one  can  hardly  speak  of  it  as  being 
probable,  or  as  being  improbable.  Probability 
extends  only  to  what  we  can  imagine  as  possible, 
and  Spinoza's  theory  seems  to  lie  beyond  the 
range  within  which  our  judgment  can  exercise 
itself.  In  our  own  opinion,  indeed,  as  we  have 
already  said,  the  entire  subject  is  one  with 
which  we  have  no  business  ;  and  the  explana- 
tion of  our  nature,  if  it  is  ever  to  be  explained  to 
us,  is  reserved  till  we  are  in  some  other  state 
of  existence.  We  do  not  disbelieve  Spinoza 
because  what  he  suggests  is  in  itself  incredible. 
The  chances  may  be  millions  to  one  against 
his  being  right  ;  yet  the  real  truth,  if  we  knew 
it,  would  be  probably  at  least  as  strange  as  his 
conception  of  it.  But  we  are  firmly  convinced 
that  of  these  questions,  and  of  all  like  them, 
practical  answers  only  lie  within  the  reach  of 
human  faculties  ;  and  that  in  '  researches  into 
the  absolute  '  we  are  on  the  road  which  ends 
nowhere. 

Among  the  difficulties,  however,  most  prop- 
erly, akin  to  this  jDhilosophy  itself,  there  is 
one  most  obvious,  viz.,  that  if  the  attributes  of 
God  be  infinite,  and  each  particular  thing  is 
expressed  under  them  all,  then  mind  and  body 
express  but  an  infinitesimal  .portion  of  the 
nature  of  each  of  ourselves  ;  and  this  human 
nature  exists,  (/.  e.,  there  exists  corresponding 
modes  of  substance)  in  the  whole  infinity  of 
the  Divine  nature  under  attributes  differing 
each  from  each,  and  all  from  mind  and  all 
from  body.  That  this  must  be  so  follows 
from  the  definition  of  the  Infinite  Being,  and 
the  nature  of  the  distinction  between  the  two 
attributes  which  are  known  to  us ;  and  if  this 
be  so,  why  does  not  the  mind  ^^erceive  some- 
thing of  all  these  other  attributes  ?  The  ob- 
jection is   well  expressed  by  a  correspondent 


130 


IIISTOKICAL  ESSAYS. 


(Letter  67)  : — *It  follows  from  what  you  say,' 
a  friend  writes  to  Spinoza,  '  that  the  modifica- 
tion which  constitutes  my  mind,  and  that  which 
constitutes  my  body,  although  it  be  one  and 
the  same  modification,  yet  must  be  expressed 
in  an  infinity  of  ways :  one  way  by  thought,  a 
second  way  by  extension,  a  third  by  some 
attribute  unknown  to  me,  and  so  on  to  infinity  ; 
the  attributes  being  infinite  in  number,  and  the 
order  and  connection  of  modes  beincr  the  same 
in  them  all.  Why,  then,  does  the  mind  perceive 
the  modes  of  but  one  attribute  only  ? ' 

Spinoza's  answer  is  curious  :  unhappily,  a 
fragment  of  his  letter  only  is  extant,  so  that  it 
is  too  brief  to  be  satisfactory  : — 

In  reply  to  your  difficulty  (he  says),  although  each 
particular  thing  be  truly  in  the  Infinite  mind,  conceived 
in  Infinite  modes,  the  Infinite  idea  answering  to  all 
these  cannot  constitute  one  and  the  same  mind  of  any 
single  being,  but  must  constitute  Infinite  minds.  No 
one  of  all  these  Infinite  ideas  has  any  connection  with 
another. 

He  means,  we  suppose,  that  God's  mind  only 
perceives,  or  can  perceive,  things  under  their 
Infinite  expression,  and  that  the  idea  of  each 
several  mode,  under  whatever  attribute,  con- 
stitutes a  separate  mind. 

We  do  not  know  that  we  can  add  anything 
to  this  explanation  ;  the  difficulty  lies  in  the 
audacious  sweep  of  the  speculation  itself ;  we 
will,  however,  attempt  an  illustration,  although 
we  fear  it  will  be  to  illustrate  obscurum  per 
obscurius.  Let  A  B  C  D  be  four  out  of  the 
Infinite  number  of  the  Divine  attributes.  A 
the  attribute  of  mind  ;  B  the  attribute  of  ex- 
tension :  C  and  I)  other  attributes,  the  nature 
of  which  is  not  known  to  us.  Now,  A,  as  the 
attribute  of  mind,  is  that  which  perceives  all 
which  takes  place  under  B  C  and  D,  but  it 
is  only  as  it  exists  in  God  that  it  forms  the 
universal  consciousness  of  all  attributes  at 
once.       In    its   modifications    it    is    combined 


SPINOZA. 


131 


separately  with  the  modifications  of  each,  con- 
stituting in  combination  with  the  modes  of  each 
attribute  a  separate  being.  As  forming  the 
mind  of  B,  A  perceives  what  takes  place  in 
15,  but  not  what  takes  place  in  C  or  D.  Com- 
bined with  B,  it  forms  the  soul  of  the  human 
body,  and  generally  the  soul  of  all  modification 
of  extended  substance  ;  combined  with  C,  it 
forms  the  soul  of  some  other  analogous  being  ; 
combined  with  D,  again  of  another;  but  the 
combinations  are  only  in  pairs,  in  which  A  is 
constant.  A  and  B  make  one  being,  A  and 
C  another,  A  and  D  a  third  ;  but  B  will  not 
combine  with  C,  nor  C  with  D  ;  each  attribute 
being,  as  it  were,  conscious  only  of  itself.  And 
therefore,  although  to  those  modifications  of 
mind  and  extension  which  we  call  ourselves, 
there  are  corresponding  modifications  under  C 
and  D,  and  generally  each  of  the  Infinite  attri- 
butes of  God,  each  of  ourselves  being  in  a  sense 
Infinite — nevertheless,  we  neither  have  nor  can 
have  any  knowledge  of  ourselves  in  this  Infinite 
aspect,  our  actual  consciousness  being  limited 
to  the  phenomena  of  sensible  experience. 

English  readers,  however,  are  likely  td  care 
little  for  all  this  ;  they  will  look  to  the  general 
theory,  and  judge  of  it  as  its  aspect  affects 
them.  And  first,  perhaps,  they  will  be  tempted 
to  throw  aside  as  absurd  the  notion  that  their 
bodies  go  through  the  many  operations  which 
they  experience  them  to  do,  undirected  by  their 
minds.  It  is  a  thing,  they  may  say,  at  once 
preposterous  and  incredible.  It  is,  however, 
less  absurd  than  it  seems  ;  and,  though  we 
could  not  persuade  ourselves  to  believe  it, 
absurd  in  the  sense  of  having  nothing  to  be  ' 
said  for  it,  it  certainly  is  not.  It  is  far  easier, 
for  instance,  to  imagine  the  human  soul  capa- 
ble by  its  own  virtue,  and  by  the  laws  of  ma- 
terial organization,  of  building  a  house,  than  of 
t/i inking ;  and  yet  men  are  allowed  to  say  that 
the  body  thinks,  without  being  regarded  as 
candidates  for  a  lunatic  asylum.     VVe  see  the 


132 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


seed  shoot  up  into  stem  and  leaf  and  throw  out 
flowers;  we  observe  it  fulfilling  processes  of 
chemistry  more  subtle  than  were  ever  executed 
in  Liebig's  laboratory,  and  producing  structures 
more  cunning  than  man  can  imitate.  The  bird 
builds  her  nest,  the  spider  shapes  out  its  deli- 
cate web,  and  stretches  it  in  the  path  of  his 
prey ;  directed  not  by  calculating  thought,  as 
we  conceive  ourselves  to  be^  but  by  some  mo- 
tive influence,  our  ignorance  of  the  nature  of 
which  we  disguise  from  ourselves,  and  call  it 
instinct,  but  which  we  believe  at  least  to  be 
some  property  residing  in  the  organization. 
We  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  human  body, 
the  most  complex  of  all  material  structures,  has 
slighter  powers  in  it  than  the  bodies  of  a  seed, 
a  bird,  or  an  insect.  Let  us  listen  to  Spinoza 
himself: 

There  can  be  no  doubt  (he  says)  that  this  hypothesis 
is  true  ;  but  unless  I  can  prove  it  from  experience,  men 
will  not,  I  fear,  be  induced  even  to  reHect  uponit  calmly, 
so  persuaded  afe  tlicy  that  it  is  by  the  mind  only  that 
their  bodies  are  set  in  motion.  And  yet  what  body  can 
or  cannot  do  no  one  has  yet  determined  ;  body,  i.  e  ,  by 
the  law  of  its  own  nature,  and  without  assistance  from 
mind.  No  one  has  so  probed  the  human  frame  as  to 
have  detected  all  its  functions  and  exhausted  the  list  of 
them  ;  there  are  powers  exhibited  by  animals  far  ex- 
ceeding human  sagacity  ;  and,  again,  feats  are  performed 
by  somnambulists  on  wliich  in  the  waking  state  the  same 
persons  would  never  venture — itself  a  jjroof  that  body  is 
able  to  accomplish  what  mind  can  only  admire.  Med 
say  that  mind  moves  body,  but  how  it  moves  it  they 
cannot  tell,  or  what  degree  of  motion  it  can  impart  to  it ; 
so  that,  in  fact,  they  do  not  know  what  they  say,  and  are 
only  confessing  their  own  ignorance  in  specious  lan- 
guage. They  will  answer  nie,  that  whether  or  not  they 
understand  how  it  can  be,  yet  that  they  are  assured  by 
plain  experience  that  unless  mind  could  perceivey  body 
would  be  altogether  inactive;  they  know  that  it  depends 
on  the  mind  whether  the  tongue  speaks  6r  is  silent. 
I5ut  do  they  not  ccjuallv  experience  that  if  thcif  bodies 
are' paralyzed  their  minds  cannot  think? — that  if  their 
bodies  are  asleep  their  minds  are  without  power  .' — that 
their  minds  are  not  at  all  times  equally  able  to  exert 
themselves  even  on  the  same  subject,  but  depend  on  the 
state  of  their  bodies  ?  And  as  for  experience  proving 
that  the  members  of  the  body  can  be  controlled  by  the 


SPINOZA.  133 

mind,  I  fear  experience  proves  very  much  the  reverse. 
But  it  is  absurd  (they  rejuin)  to  attempt  to  explain  from 
the  mere  hiws  of  body  such  things  as  pictures,  or  paLaccs, 
or  works  of  art  ;  the  body  could  not  build  a  church  un- 
less mind  directed  it.  I  have  shown,  however,  that  we 
do  not  yet  know  what  body  can  or  cannot  do,  or  what 
would  naturally  follow  froni  the  structure  of  it;  that  we 
experience  in  the  feats  of  somnambulists  something 
which  antecedently  to  that  experience  would  have  seemed 
incredible.  This  fabric  of  the  human  body  exceeds  in- 
finitely anv  contrivance  of  human  skill,  and  an  infinity  of 
things,  as  I  have  already  proved,  ought  to  follow  from 
it. 

We  are  not  concerned  to  answer  this  reason- 
ing, although  if  the  matter  were  one  the  debating 
of  which  could  be  of  any  profit,  it  would  un- 
doubtedly have  its  weight,  and  would  require 
to  be  patiently  considered.  Life  is  too  serious, 
however,  to  be  wasted  with  impunity  over 
speculations  in  which  certainty  is  impossible, 
and  in  which  we  are  trifling  with  what  is 
inscrutablcj 

Objections  of  a  far  graver  kind  were  anti- 
cipated by  Spinoza  himself;  when  he  went  on 
to  gather  out  of  his  philosophy  '  that  the  mind 
of  man  being  part  of  the  Infinite  intelligence, 
when  we  say  that  Such  a  mind  perceives  this 
thing  or  that,  we  are,  in  fact,  saying  that  God 
perceives  it,  not  as  he  is  Infinite,  but  as  he  is 
represented  by  the  natiu'e  of  this  or  that  idea  ; 
and  similarly,  when  we  say  that  a  man  does 
this  or  that  action,  we  say  that  God  does  it,  not 
qua  he  is  Infinite,  but  qua  he  is  expressed  in 
that  man's  nature.'  '  Here,'  he  says,  '  many 
readers  will  no  doubt  hesitate,  and  many  diffi- 
culties will  occur  to  them  in  the  way  of  such  a 
supposition.' 

We  confess  that  we  ourselves  are  among 
these  hesitating  readers.  As  long  as  the  Being 
whom  Spinoza  so  freely  names  remains  sur- 
rounded with  the  associations  which  in  this 
country  we  bring  with  us  out  of  our  childhood, 
not  all  the  lojiic  in  the  world  would  make  us 
listen  to  language  such  as  this.  It  is  not  so — 
we  know  it,  and  that  is  enough.     We  arc  well 


J34  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

aware  of  the  phalanx  of  difficulties  which  lie 
about  our  theistic  conceptions.  They  are  quite 
enough,  if  religion  depended  on  speculative 
consistency,  and  not  in  obedience  of  life,  to 
perplex  and  terrify  us.  What  are  we?  what  is 
anything  ?  If  it  be  not  Divine — what  is  it  then  ? 
If  created — out  of  what  is  it  created  ?  and  how 
created — and  why  ?  These  questions,  and 
others  far  more  momentous  which  we  do  not 
enter  upon  here,  may  be  asked  and  cannot  be 
answered  ;  but  we  cannot  any  the  more  consent 
to  Spinoza  on  the  ground  that  he  alone  consis- 
tently provides  an  answer;  because, as  we  have 
said  again  and  again,  we  do  not  care  to  have 
them  answered  at  all.  Conscience  is  the  single 
tribunal  to  which  we  choose  to  be  referred,  and 
conscience  declares  imperatively  that  what  he 
says  is  not  true.  It  is  painful  to  speak  of  all 
this,  and  as  far  as  possible  we  designedly 
avoid  it.  Pantheism  is  not  Atheism,  but  the 
Infinite  Positive  and  the  infinite  Negative  are 
not  so  remote  from  one  another  in  their  prac- 
tical bearings ;  only  let  us  remember  that  we 
are  far  indeed  from  the  truth  if  we  think  that 
God  to  Spinoza  was  nothing  dse  but  that  world 
which  we  experience.  It  is  but  one  of  infinite 
expressions  of  him — a  conception  which  makes 
us  giddy  in  the  effort  to  realize  it. 

We  have  arrived  at  last  at  the  outwork  of 
the  whole  matter  in  its  bearings  upon  life  and 
human  duty.  It  was  in  the  search  after  this 
last,  that  Spinoza,  as  we  said,  travelled  over  so 
strange  a  country,  and  we  now  expect  his  con- 
clusions. 'J'o  discover  tiic  true  good  of  man, 
to  direct  his  actions  to  such  ends  as  will  secure 
to  him  real  and  lasting  felicity,  and,  by  a  com- 
parison of  his  powers  with  the  objects  offered 
to  them,  to  ascertain  how  far  they  are  capable 
of  arriving  at  these  objects,  and  by  what  means 
they  can  best  be  trained  towards  them — is  the 
aim  which  Spinoza  assigns  to  philosophy. 
'Most  people,'  he  adds,  'deride  or  vilify  their 
nature  ;   it   is  a   better   thing   to   endeavor  to 


SPINOZA. 


135 


understand  it;  and  however  extravagant  my 
proceeding  may  be  thought,  I  propose  to 
analyze  the  properties  of  that  nature  as  if  it 
were  a  mathematical  figure.'  Mind  being,  as 
he  conceives  himself  to  have  shown,  nothing 
else  than  the  idea  corresponding  to  this  or  that 
affection  of  body,  we  are  not,  therefore,  to 
think  of  it  as  a  faculty,  but  simply  and  merely 
as  an  act.  There  is  no  general  power  called 
intellect,  any  more  than  there  is  any  general 
abstract  volition,  but  only  hie  et  ilk  intcllcctus 
et  Jucc  et  ilia  volitio. 

Again,  by  the  word  IStind  is  understood  not 
merely  an  act  or  acts  of  will  or  intellect,  but  all 
forms  also  of  consciousness  of  sensation  or 
emotion.  The  human  body  being  composed  of 
many  small  bodies,  the  mind  is  similarly  com- 
posed of  many  minds,  and  the  unity  of  body 
and  of  mind  depends  on  the  relation  which  the 
component  portions  maintain  towards  each 
other.  This  is  obviously  the  case  with  body  ; 
and  if  we  can  translate  metaphysics  into  com- 
mon experience,  it  is  equally  the  case  with 
mind.  There  are  pleasures  of  sense  and  pleas- 
ures of  intellect;  a  thousand  tastes,  tendencies, 
and  inclinations  form  our  mental  composition  ; 
and  since  one  contradicts  another,  and  each  has 
a  tendency  to  become  dominant,  it  is  only  in 
the  harmonious  equipoise  of  their  several 
activities  in  their  due  and  just  subordination, 
that  any  unity  of  action  or  consistency  of  feel- 
ing is  possible.  After  a  masterly  analysis  of 
all  these  tendencies  (the  most  complete  by  far 
which  has  ever  been  made  by  any  moral  phil- 
osopher), Spinoza  arrives  at  the  principles 
under  which  unity  and  consistency  can  be 
obtained  as  the  condition  upon  which  a  being 
so  composed  can  look  for  any  sort  of  happiness  ; 
and  these  principles,  arrived  at  as  they  are  by 
a  route  so  different,  are  the  same,  and  are  pro- 
posed by  Spinoza  as  being  the  same,  as  those 
of  the  Christian  religion. 

It  might  seem  impossible  in  a  system  which 


136  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

binds  together  in  so  inexorable  a  sequence  the 
relations  of  cause  and  effectj  to  make  a  place 
for  the  action  of  self-control ;  but  consideration 
will  show  that,  however  vast  the  difference 
between  those  who  deny  and  those  who  affirm 
the  liberty  of  the  will  (in  the  sense  in  which 
the  expression  is  usually  understood),  it  is  not 
a  difference  which  affects  the  conduct  or  alters 
the  practical  bearings  of  it.  Conduct  may  be 
determined  by  laws — laws  as  absolute  as  those 
of  matter ;  and  yet  the  one  as  well  as 
the  other  may  be  brought  under  control  by  a 
proper  understanding  of  those  laws.  Now, 
experience  seems  plainly  to  say  that  while  all 
our  actions  arise  out  of  desire— that  whatever 
we  do,  we  do  for  tlie  sake  of  something  which 
we  wish  to  be  or  to  obtain- — we  are  differently 
affected  towards  what  is  proposed  to  us  as  an 
object  of  desire,  in  proportion  as  we  understand 
the  nature  of  such  object  in  itself  and  its 
consequences.  The  better  we  know,  the  better 
we  act ;  and  the  fallacy  of  all  common  argu- 
ments against  necessitarianism  lies  in  the 
assumption  that  it  leaves  no  room  for  self-direc- 
tion :  it  merely  insists,  in  exact  conformity  with 
experience,  on  the  conditions  under  which  self- 
determination  is  possible.  Conduct,  according 
to  the  necessitarian,  depends  on  knowledge. 
Let  a  man  certainly  know  that  there  is  poison 
in  the  cup  of  wine  before  him,  and  he  will  not 
drink  it.  By  the  law  of  cause  and  effect,  his 
desire  for  the  wine  is  overcome  by  the  fear  of 
the  pain  or  the  death  which  will  follow.  So 
with  everything  which  comes  before  him.  Let 
the  consequences  of  any  action  be  clear, 
definite,  and  inevitable,  and  tiiough  Spinoza 
would  not  say  that  the  knowledge  of  them  v/ill 
be  absolutely  sufficient  to  determine  the  con- 
duct (because  the  clearest  knowledge  may  be 
overborne  by  violent  passion,  yet  it  is  the  best 
which  we  have  to  trust  to,  and  will  do  much  if 
it  cannot  do  all. 


SPINOZA. 


137 


On  this  hypothesis,  after  a  diagnosis  of  the 
various  tendencies  of  human  nature,  called  com- 
monly the  passions  and  affections,  he  returns 
jpon  the  nature  of  our  ordinary  knowledge  to 
derive  out  of  it  the  means  for  their  subordina- 
tion. All  these  tendencies  of  themselves  seek 
their  own  objects — seek  them  blindly  and  im- 
moderately ;  and  the  mistakes  and  the  unhap- 
pinesses  of  life  arise  from  the  want  of  due  un- 
derstanding of  these  objects,  and  a  just  moder- 
ation of  the  desire  for  them.  His  analysis  is 
remarkably  clear,  but.it  is  too  long  for  us  to 
enter  upon  it ;  the  important  thing  being  the 
character  of  the  control  which  is  to  be  ex- 
erted. To  arrive  at  this,  he  employs  a  distinc- 
tion of  great  practical  utility,  and  which  is 
peculiarly  his  own. 

Following  his  tripartite  division  of  knowl- 
edge, he  finds  all  kinds  of  it  arrange  them- 
selves under  one  of  two  classes,  and  to  be 
either  adequate  or  inadequate.  By  adequate 
knowledire  he  does  not  mean  what  is  exhaus- 
tive  and  complete,  but  what,  as  far  as  it  goes, 
is  distinct  and  unconfused :  by  inadequate,  he 
means  what  we  know  merely  as  fact  either  de- 
rived from  our  own  sensations  or  from  the  author- 
ity of  others,  while  of  the  connection  of  it  with 
other  facts,  of  the  causes,  effects,  or  meaning 
of  it  we  know  nothing.  We  may  have  an  ade- 
quate idea  of  a  circle,  though  we  are  unac- 
quainted with  all  the  properties  which  belong 
to  it ;  we  conceive  it  distinctly  as  a  figure  gen- 
erated bv  the  rotation  of  a  line,  one  end  of 
which  is  stationary.  Phenomena,  on  the  other 
hand,  however  made  known  to  us — phenomena 
of  the  senses,  and  phenomena  of  experience, 
as  long  as  they  remain  phenomena  merely, 
and  unseen  in  any  higher  relation — we  can 
never  know  except  as  inadequately.  We  can- 
not tell  what  outward  things  are  by  coming  in 
contact  with  certain  features  of  them.  We 
have  a  very  imperfect  acquaintance  even  with 
our  own  bodies,  and  the  sensations  which  we 


138 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


experience  of  various  kinds  rather  indicate  to 
us  the  nature  of  these  bodies  themselves  than 
of  the  objects  which  affect  them.  Now,  it  is 
obvious  that  the  greater  part  of  mankind  act 
only  upon  knowledge  of  this  latter  kind.  The 
amusements,  even  the  active  pursuiis,  of  most 
of  us  remain  wholly  within  the  range  of  uncer- 
tainty, and,  therefore,  are  full  of  hazard  and 
precariousness  :  little  or  nothing  issues  as  we 
expect.  We  look  for  pleasure  and  we  find 
pain  ;  we  shun  one  pain  and  find  a  greater  ; 
and  thus  arises  the  ineffectual  character  which 
we  so  complain  of  in  life — the  disappointments, 
failures,  mortifications  which  form  the  material 
of  so  much  moral  meditation  on  the  vanity  of 
the  world.  Much  of  all  this  is  inevitable  from 
the  constitution  of  our  nature.  The  mind  is 
too  infirm  to  be  entirely  occupied  with  higher 
knowledge.  The  conditions  of  life  oblige  us  to 
act  in  many  cases  which  cannot  be  understood 
by  us  except  with  the  utmost  inadequacy  ;  and 
the  resignation  to  the  higher  will  which  has  de- 
termined all  things  in  the  wisest  way,  is  imper- 
fect in  the  best  of  us.  Yet  much  is  possible, 
if  not  all ;  and,  although  through  a  large  tract 
of  life  '  there  comes  one  event  to  all,  to  the 
wise  and  to  the  unwise,'  '  yet  wisdom  excelleth 
folly  as  far  as  light  excelleth  darkness.'  The 
phenomena  of  experience,  after  inductive  ex- 
periment, and  just  and  careful  consideration, 
arrange  themselves  under  laws  uniform  in  their 
operation,  and  furnishing  a  guide  to  the  judg- 
ment;  and  over  all  things,  although  the  inter- 
val must  remain  unexplored  forever,  because 
what  we  would  search  into  is  Infinite,  may  be 
seen  the  beginning  of  all  things,  the  absolute 
eternal  Goil.  '  Mens  humana,'  Spinoza  con- 
tinues, '  qua'dam  agit,  qua:dam  vero  patitur.' 
In  so  far  as  it  is  influenced  by  inadequate  ideas 
— '  catenus  patitur  ' — it  is  passive  and  in  bond- 
age, it  is  the  sport  of  fortune  and  caprice  :  in 
so  far  as  its  ideas  are  adequate — 'eatenus  agit  * 
— it  is  active,  it   is  itself.     While  we  are  gov- 


SPINOZA.  13Q 

erncd  by  outward  temptations,  by  the  casual 
pleasures,  by  the  fortunes  or  the  misfortunes 
of  life,  we  are  but  instruments,  yielding  our- 
selves to  be  acted  upon  as  the  animal  is  acted 
on  by  its  appetites,  or  the  inanimate  matter 
by  the  laws  which  bind  it  ;  we  are  slaves 
— instruments,  it  may  be,  of  some  higher 
purpose  in  the  order  of  nature,  but  in  our- 
selves nothing;  instruments  which  are  em- 
ployed for  a  special  work,  and  which  are  con- 
sumed in  effecting  it.  So  far,  on  the  contrary, 
as  we  know  clearly  what  we  do,  as  we  under- 
stand what  we  are,  and  direct  our  conduct  not 
by  the  passing  emotion  of  the  moment,  but  by 
a  grave,  clear,  and  constant  knowledge  of  what 
is  really  good,  so  far  we  are  said  to  act — we 
are  ourselves  the  spring  of  our  own  activity — 
we  pursue  the  genuine  well-being  of  our  entire 
nature,  and  that  we  can  always  find,  and  it 
never  disappoints  us  when  found. 

All  things  desire  life  ;  all  things  seek  for 
energy,  and  fuller  and  ampler  being.  The 
component  parts  of  man,  his  various  appetites 
and  passions,  are  seeking  larger  activity  while 
pursuing  each  its  immoderate  indulgence  ;  and 
it  is  the  primary  law  of  every  single  being  that 
it  so  follows  what  will  give  it  increasedvitality. 
Whatever  will  contribute  to  such  increase  is 
the  proper  good  of  each  ;  and  the  good  of  man 
as  a  united  being  is  measured  and  determined 
by  the  effect  of  it  upon  his  collective  powers. 
'Pile  appetites  gather  power  from  their  several 
objects  of  desire  ;  but  the  power  of  the  part  is 
the  weakness  of  the  whole  ;  and  man  as  a  col- 
lective person  gathers  life,  being,  and  self-mas- 
tery only  from  the  absolute  good, — the  source 
of  all  real  good,  and  truth,  and  energ\-, — that 
is,  God.  The  love  of  God  is  the  extinction  of 
all  other  loves  and  all  other  desires.  To  know 
God,  as  far  as  man  can  know  him,  is  power, 
self-government,  and  peace.  And  this  is  vir- 
tue, and  this  is  blessedness. 

Thus,  by  a  formal  process  of  demonstration, 


140 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


we  are  brought  round  to  the  old  conclusions 
of  theology ;  and  Spinoza  protests  that  it  is  n'o 
new  doctrine  which  he  is  teaching,  but  that  it 
is  one  which  in  various  dialects  has  been 
believed  from  the  beginning  of  the  w'orld. 
Happiness  depends  on  the  consistency  and 
coherency  of  character,  and  that  coherency 
can  only  be  given  by  the  knowledge  of  the 
One  Being,  to  know  whom  is  to  know  all  things 
adequately,  and  to  love  whom  is  to  have  con- 
quered every  other  inclination.  The  more  en- 
tirely our  minds  rest  on  Him — the  more  dis- 
tinctly we  regard  all  things  in  their  relation  to 
Him,  the  more  we  cease  to  be  under  the 
dominion  of  external  things  ;  we  surrender 
ourselves  consciously  to  do  His  will,  and 
as  living  men  and  not  as  passive  things 
we  become  the  instruments  of  His  power. 
When  the  true  nature  and  true  causes  of  our 
affections  become  clear  to  us,  they  have  no 
more  power  to  influence  us.  The  more  we 
understand,  the  less  can  feeling  swaying  us  ;  we 
know  that  all  things  are  what  they  are,  because 
they  are  so  constituted  that  they  could  not  be 
otherwise,  and  we  cease  to  be  angry  with  our 
brother,  because  he  disappoints  us  ;  we  shall 
not  fret"  at  calamity,  nor  complain  of  fortune, 
because  no  such  thing  as  fortune  exists  ;  and 
if  we  fail  it  is  better  than  if  we  had  succeeded, 
not  perhaps  for  ourselves,  yet  for  the  uni- 
verse. We  cannot  fear,  when  nothing  can 
befall  us  except  what  God  wills,  and  we  shall 
not  violently  hope,  when  the  future,  whatever 
it  be,  will  be  the  best  which  is  possible,  See- 
ing all  things  in  their  place  in  the  everlasting 
order,  Past  and  Future  will  not  affect  us.  The 
temptation  of  present  pleasure  will  not  over- 
come the  certainty  of  future  pain,  for  the  pain 
will  be  as  sure  as  the  pleasure^  and  we  shall 
see  all  things  under  a  rule  of  adamant.  The 
foolish  and  tl)e  ignorant  are  led  astray  by  the 
idea  of  contingency,  and  expect  to  escape  the 
just  issues  of  their  actions  ;  the  wise  man  will 


SPINOZA. 


141 


know  that  each  action  brinjrs  with  it  its  incvi- 


&■' 


table  consequences,  which  even  God  cannot 
change  without  ceasing  to  be  Himself. 

In  such  a  manner,  tiirough  all  the  conditions 
of  life,  Spinoza  pursues  the  advantages  which 
will  accrue  to  man  from  the  knowledge  of  God, 
God  and  man  being  what  his  philosophy  has  de- 
scribed them.  His  practical  teaching  is  sin- 
gularly beautiful ;  although  much  of  its  beauty 
is  perhaps  due  to  associations  which  have 
arisen  out  of  Christianitv,  and  which  in  the 
system  of  Pantheism  have  no  proper  abiding 
plnce.  Retaining,  indeed,  all  that  is  beautiful 
in  Christianity,  he  even  seems  to  have  relieved 
himself  of  the  more  fearful  features  of  the  gen- 
eral creed.  He  acknowledges  no  hell,  no  devil, 
no  positive  and  active  agency  at  enmity  with 
God  ;  but  sees  in  all  things  infinite  gradations 
of  beings,  all  in  their  way  obedient,  all  fulfil- 
ling the  part  allotted  to  them.  Doubtless  a 
pleasant  exchange  and  a  grateful  deliverance, 
if  only  v.-e  could  persuade  ourselves  that  a  hun- 
dred pages  of  judiciously  arranged  demon- 
strations could  really  and  indeed  have  worked 
it  for  us  ;  if  we  could  indeed  believe  that  we 
could  have  the  year  without  its  winter,  day  with- 
out night,  sunlight  without  shadow.  Evil  is  un- 
happily too  real  a  thing  to  be  so  disposed  of. 

But  if  we  cannot  believe  Spinoza's  system 
taken  in  its  entire  completeness,  yet  we  may 
not  blind  ourselves  to  the  disinterestedness  and 
calm  nobility  which  pervades  his  theories  of 
human  life  and  obligation.  He  will  not  hear 
of  a  virtue  which  desires  to  be  rewarded. 
Virtue  is  the  power  of  God  in  the  human  soul, 
and  that  is  the  exhaustive  end  of  all  human 
desire.  '  Beatitudo  non  est  virtutis  pretium, 
sed  ipsa  virtus.  Nihil  aliud  est  quam  ipsa  an- 
imi  acquiescentia,  quse  ex  Dei  intuitiva  cogni- 
tione  oritur.'  The  same  spirit  of  generosity 
exhibits  itself  in  all  his  conclusions.  The  or- 
dinary objects  of  desire,  he  says,  are  of  such  a 
kind   that  for  one   man   to  obtain  them  is  for 


142  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

another  to  lose  them  ;  and  this  alone  would 
suffice  to  prove  that  they  are  not  wiiat  any  man 
should  labor  after.  l!ut  the  fulness  of  God 
suflfices  for  us  all  ;  and  he  who  possesses  this 
good  desires  only  to  communicate  it  to  every 
one  and  to  make  all  mankind  as  happy  as  him 
self.  And  again  : — '  The  wise  men  will  not 
speak  in  society  of  his  neighbor's  faults,  and 
sparingly  of  the  infirmity  of  human  nature  ;  but 
he  will  speak  largely  of  human  virtue  and  human 
power,  and  of  the  means  by  which  that  nature 
can  best  be  perfected,  so  to  lead  men  to  put 
away  their  fear  and  aversion  with  which  they 
look  on  goodness,  and  learn  with  relieved  hearts 
to  love  and  desire  it.'  And  once  more  : — 
'  He  who  loves  God  will  not  desire  that  God 
should  love  him  in  return  with  any  partial  or 
particular  affection,  for  that  is  to  desire  that 
God  for  his  sake  should  change  His  everlast- 
ing nature  and  become  lower  than  himself.* 

One  grave  element,  indeed,  of  a  religious 
faith  would  seem  in  such  a  system  to  be  neces- 
sarily wanting.  Where  individual  action  is 
resolved  into  the  modified  activity  of  the  Uni- 
versal Being,  all  absorbing  and  all  evolving, 
the  individuality  of  the  personal  man  is  but 
an  evanescent  and  unreal  shadow.  Such  indi- 
viduality as  we  now  possess,  whatever  it  be, 
might  continue  to  exist  in  a  future  state  as 
really  as  it  exists  in  the  present,  and  those  to 
whom  it  belongs  might  be  anxious  naturally 
for  its  persistence.  Yet  it  would  seem  that 
if  the  soul  be  nothing  except  the  idea  of  a 
body  actually  existing,  when  that  body  is 
decomposed  into  its  elements,  the  soul  cor- 
responding to  it  must  accompany  it  into  an 
answering  dissolution.  And  this,  indeed, 
Spinoza  in  one  sense  actually  affirms,  when 
he  denies  to  the  mind  any  power  of  retaining 
consciousness  of  what  has  befallen  it  in  life, 
'nisi  durrmte  corpore.'  But  Spinozism  is  a 
philosophy  full  of  surprises  ;  and  our  calcula- 
tions of  what  musi  belong  to  it  are  perpetually 


sriNoz.1.  143 

baffled.  The  imagination,  the  memory,  the 
senses,  whatever  belongs  to  inadequate  percep- 
tion perish  necessarily  and  eternally  ;  and  the 
man  who  has  been  the  slave  of  his  inclinations, 
who  has  no  knowledge  cf  God,  and  no  active 
possession  of  himself,  having  in  life  possessed 
no  personality,  loses  in  death  the  appearance 
of  it  with  the  dissolution  of  the  body. 

Nevertheless,  there  is  in  God  an  idea  ex- 
pressing the  essence  of  the  mind,  united  to  the 
mind  as  the  mind  is  united  in  the  body,  and 
thus  there  is  in  the  soul  something  of  an  ever- 
lastmg  nature  which  cannot  utterly  perish. 
And  here  Spinoza,  as  he  often  does  in  many  of 
his  most  solemn  conclusions,  deserts  for  a  mo- 
ment the  thread  of  his  demonstrations,  and  ap- 
jDcals  to  the  consciousness.  In  spite, of  our  non- 
recollection  of  what  passed  before  our  birth,  in 
spite  of  all  difificulties  from  the  dissolution  of 
the  body,  'Nihilominus,'  he  says,  'sentimus 
experimurque  nos  a:;ternos  esse.  Nam  mens 
non  minus  res  illas  sentit  quas  intelligendo 
concipit,  quam  quas  in  memoria  habet.  Men- 
tis enim  oculi  quibus  res  videt  observatque 
sunt  ipsai  demonstrationes.' 

This  perception,  immediately  revealed  to  the 
mind,  falls  into  easy  harmony  with  the  rest  of 
the  system.  As  the  mind  is  not  a  faculty,  but 
an  act  or  acts, — not  a  power  of  perception,  but 
the  perception  itself,  in  its  high  union  with  the 
highest  object  (to  use  the  metaphysical  language 
which  Coleridge  has  made  popular  and  par- 
tially intelligible),  the  object  and  the  subject 
become  one.  If  knowledge  be  followed  as  it 
ought  to  be  followed,  and  all  objects  of  knowl- 
edge be  regarded  in  their  relations,  to  the  One 
Absolute  Being,  the  knowledge  of  particular 
outward  things,  of  nature,  or  life,  or  history, 
becomes,  in  fact,  knowledge  of  God  ;  and  the 
more  complete  or  adequate  such  knowledge, 
the  more  the  mind  is  raised  above  what  is 
perishable  in  the  phenomena  to  the  idea  or 
law  which  lies  beyond  them.     It  learns  to  dwell 


144 


HISTOI^ICAL  ESSAYS. 


exclusively  upon  the  eternal,  not  upon  the 
temporary  ;  and  being  thus  occupied  with  the 
everlasting  laws,  and  its  activity  subsisting  in 
its  perfect  union  without  them,  it  contracts  in 
itself  the  character  of  the  objects  which  pos- 
sess it.  Thus  we  are  emancipated  from  the 
conditions  of  duration  ;  we  are  liable  even  to 
death  only  guate/ius patimur,  as  we  are  passive 
things  and  not  active  intelligences  ;  and  the 
more  we  possess  such  knowledge  and  are 
possessed  by  it,  the  more  entirely  the  passive 
is  superseded  by  the  active — so  that  at  last 
the  human  soul  may  'become  of  such  a  nature 
that  the  portion  of  it  which  will  perish  with  the 
body  in  comparison  with  that  of  it  which  shall 
endure,  shall  be  insignificant  and  nnllius  mo- 
menti.'  (Eth.  v.  38.) 

Such  are  the  principal  features  of  a  philos- 
ophy, the  influence  of  which  upon  Europe, 
direct  and  indirect,  it  is  not  easy  to  over-esti- 
mate. The  account  of  it  is  far  from  being 
an  account  of  the  whole  of  Spinoza's  la- 
bors ;  his  '  Tractatus  Theologico-Politicus'  was 
the  forerunner  of  German  historical  criti- 
cism ;  the  whole  of  which  has  been  but  the 
application  of  principles  laid  down  in  that 
remarkable  work.  But  this  is  not  a  subject 
on  which,  upon  the  present  occasion,  we  have 
cared  to  enter.  We  have  designedly  confined 
ourselves  to  the  system  which  is  most  associat- 
ed with  the  name  of  its  author.  It  is  this 
which  has  been  really  powerful,  which  has 
stolen  over  the  minds  even  of  thinkers  who 
imagine  themselves  most  opposed  to  it.  It 
has  appeared  in  the  absolute  Pantheism  of 
Schelling  and  Hegel,  in  the  Pantheistic  Chris- 
tianity of  Herder  and  Schleiermacher.  Pass- 
ing into  practical  life  it  has  formed  the  strong, 
shrewd  judgment  of  Goethe,  while  again  it 
has  been  able  to  unite  with  the  theories  of  the 
most  extreme  materialism. 

It  lies  too,  perhaps  (and  here  its  influence 
has  been  unmixedly  good),  at  the  bottom  of 


SP/NOZA.  145 

that,  more  reverent  contemplation  of  nature 
which  has  caused  the  success  of  our  modern 
landscape  ]-)aintii\f;,  wliicli  ins])ired  Wordsworth's 
poetry,  and  which,  if  ever  physical  science  is 
to  become  an  instrument  of  intellectual  edu- 
cation, must  first  be  infused  into  the  lessons  of 
nature  ;  the  sense  of  that  '  something  '  inter 
fused  in  the  material  world — 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  liic  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; — 
A  nuition  and  a  spirit,  whicli  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things. 

If  we  shrink  from  regarding  the  extended 
universe,  with  Spinoza,  as  an  actual  manifes- 
tation of  Almighty  God,  we  are  unable  to  rest 
in  the  mere  denial  that  it  is  this.  We  go  on  to 
ask  what  it  is,  and  we  are  obliged  to  conclude 
thus  much  at  least  of  it,  that  every  smallest 
being  was  once  a  thought  in  His  mind  ;  and 
in  the  study  of  what  He  has  made,  we  are 
really  and  truly  studying  a  revelation  of  Himself. 

It  is  not  here,  it  is  not  on  the  physical,  it  is 
rather  on  the  moral  side,  that  the  stumbling- 
block  is  lyingi ;  in  that  excuse  for  evil  and  for 
evil  men  which  the  necessitarian  theory  will 
furnish,  disguise  it  in  what  fair-sounding  words 
we  will.  So  plain  this  is,  that  common-sense 
people,  and  especially  English  people,  cannot 
bring  themselves  even  to  consider  the  question 
without  impatience,  and  turn  distainfully  and 
angrily  from  a  theory  which  confuses  their  in- 
stincts of  right  and  wrong.  Although,  however 
error  on  this  side  is  infinitely  less  mischievous 
than  on  the  other,  no  vehement  error  can  exist 
in  this  world  with  impunity  ;  and  it  does  appear 
that  in  our  common  view  of  these  matters  we 
have  closed  our  eyes  to  certain  grave  facts  of 
experience,  and  liave  given  the  fatalist  a  van- 
tage ground  of  real  truth  which  we  ought  to 
have  considered  and  allowed.     At  the  risk  of 


146  NISl'OKICAL  ESSAYS. 

tediousness  we  shall  enter  briefly  into  this  un- 
promising ground.  Life  and  the  necessities  of 
life  are  our  best  philosophers  if  we  will  only 
listen  honestly  to  what  they  say  to  us  ;  and 
dislike  the  lesson  as  we  may,  it  is  cowardice 
which  refuses  to  hear  it. 

The  popular  belief  is,  that  right  and  wrong 
lie  before  every  man,  and  that  he  is  free  to 
choose  between  them,  and  the  responsibility  of 
choice  rests  with  himself.  The  fatalist's  belief 
is  that  every  man's  actions  are  determined  by 
causes  external  and  internal,  over  which  he 
has  no  power,  leaving  no  room  for  any  moral 
choice  whatever.  The  first  is  contradicted  by 
facts,  the  second  by  the  instinct  of  conscience. 
Even  Spinoza  allows  that  for  practical  purposes 
we  are  obliged  to  regard  the  future  as  con- 
tingent, and  ourselves  as  able  to  influence  it; 
and  it  is  incredible  that  both  our  inward  con- 
victions and  our  outward  conduct  should  be 
built  together  upon  a  falsehood.  But  if,  as 
Butler  says,  whatever  be  the  speculative  account 
of  the  matter,  we  are  practically  forced  to 
regard  ourselves  as  free,  this  is  but  half  the 
truth,  for  it  may  be  equally  said  that  practically 
we  are  forced  to  regard  each  other  as  nof  free  ; 
•and  to  make  allowance,  every  moment,  for 
influences  for  which  we  cannot  hold  each  other 
personally  responsible.  If  not, — if  every  per- 
son of  sound  mind  (in  the  common  acceptation 
of  the  term)  be  equally  able  at  all  times  to  act 
right  if  only  he  7i//7/, — why  all  the  care  which 
we  take  of  children  ^  why  the  pains  to  keep 
them  from  bad  society  ?  why  do  we  so  anxiously 
watch  their  disposition,  to  determine  the  edu- 
cation which  will  best  answer  to  it  .■*  Why  in 
cases  of  guilt  do  we  vary  our  moral  censure 
according  to  the  opportunities  of  the  offender.' 
Why  do  we  find  excuses  for  youth,  for  inex- 
perience, for  violent  natural  passion,  for  bad 
education,  bad  example  ?  Why,  except  that  we 
feel  that  all  these  things  do  affect  the  culpability 
of  the  guilty  person,  and  that  it  is  folly  and 


SPINOZA. 


147 


inhumanity  to  disregard  ihcm  ?  But  what  we 
act  upon  in  private  life  we  cannot  acknowledge 
in  our  ethical  theories,  and,  while  our  conduct 
in  detail  is  humane  and  just,  we  have  been 
contented  to  gather  our  speculative  philosophy 
out  of  the  broad  and  coarse  generalizations  of 
political  necessity.  In  the  swift  haste  of  social 
life  we  must  indeed  treat  men  as  we  find  them. 
We  have  no  time  to  make  allowances ;  and  the 
graduation  of  punishment  by  the  scale  of  guilt 
is  a  mere  impossibility.  A  thief  is  a  thief  in 
the  law's  eye  though  he  has  been  trained  from 
his  cradle  in  the  kennels  of  St.  Giles ;  and 
definite  penalties  must  be  attached  to  definite 
acts,  the  conditions  of  political  life  not  admit- 
ting of  any  other  method  of  dealing  with  them. 
But  it  is  absurd  to  argue  from  such  rude  neces- 
sity that  each  act  therefore,  by  whomsoever 
committed,  is  of  specific  culpability.  The  act 
is  one  thing,  the  moral  guilt  is  another.  There 
are  many  cases  in  which,  as  Butler  again  allows, 
if  we  trace  a  sinner's  history  to  the  bottom,  the 
guilt  attributable  to  himself  appears  to  vanish 
altogether. 

This  is  plain  matter  of  fact,  and  as  long  as 
we  continue  to  deny  or  ignore  it,  there  will  be 
found  men  (not  bad  men,  but  men  who  love 
the  truth  as  much  as  ourselves,)  who  will  see 
only  what  we  neglect,  and  will  insist  upon  it, 
and  build  their  systems  upon  it. 

And  again,  if  less  obvious,  yet  not  less  real, 
are  those  natural  tendencies  which  each  of  us 
brings  with  him  into  the  world, — which  we  did 
not  make,  and  yet  which  almost  as  much  deter- 
mine what  we  are  to  be,  as  the  properties  of 
the  seed  determine  the  tree  which  shall  grow 
from  it.  Men  are  self-willed,  or  violent,  or 
obstinate,  or  weak,  or  generous,  or  affectionate  ; 
there  is  as  large  difference  in  their  dispositions 
as  in  the  features  of  their  faces.  Duties  which 
are  easy  to  one,  another  finds  difBcult  or  impos- 
sible. It  is  with  morals  as  it  is  with  art.  Two 
children  are  taught  to  draw  ;  one  learns  with 


148  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

ease,  the  other  hardly  or  never.  In  vain  the 
master  will  show  him  what  to  do.  It  seems  so 
easy :  it  seems  as  if  he  had  only  to  vAIl,  and 
the  thii)2^  would  be  done  ;  but  it  is  not  so. 
Between  the  desire  and  the  execution  lies  the 
incapable  organ  which  only  wearily,  and  after 
long  labor,  imperfectly  accomplishes  what  is 
required  of  it.  And  the  same,  to  a  certain 
extent,  unless  we  will  deny  the  patent  facts  of 
experience,  holds  true  in  moral  actions.  No 
wonder,  therefore,  that  evaded  or  thrust  aside 
as  these  things  are  in  the  popular  beliefs,  as 
soon  as  they  are  recognized  in  their  full  reality 
they  should  be  mistaken  for  the  whole  truth, 
and  the  free-will  theory  be  thrown  aside  as  a 
chimera. 

It  may  be  said,  and  it  often  is  said,  that 
such  reasonings  are  merely  sophistical — that 
however  we  entangle  ourselves  in  logic,  we 
are  conscious  that  we  are  free  ;  we  know — we 
are  as  sure  as  we  are  of  our  existence — that 
we'  have  power  to  act  this  way  or  that  way, 
exactly  as  we  choose.  But  this  is  less  plain 
than  it  seems ;  and  if  granted,  it  proves  less 
than  it  appears  to  prove.  It  may  be  true 
that  we  can  act  as  we  choose,  but  can  we  cJioosef 
Is  not  our  choice  determined  for  us?  We 
cannot  determine  from  the  fact,  because  we 
always  Juwc  chosen  as  soon  as  we  act,  and  we 
cannot  replace  the  conditions  in  such  a  way 
as  to  discover  whether  we  could  have  chosen 
anything  else.  The  stronger  motive  may  have 
determined  our  volition  without  our  perceiving 
it  ;  and  if  we  desire  to  prove  our  independence 
of  motive,  by  showing  that  we  can  choose 
something  different  from  that  which  we  should 
naturally  have  chosen,  we  still  cannot  escape 
from  the  circle,  this  very  desire  becoming,  as 
Mr  Hume  observes,  itself  a  motive.  Again, 
consciousness  of  the  possession  of  any  power 
may  easily  be  delusive  ;  we  can  properly  judge 
what  our  powers  are  only  by  what  they  have 
actually  accomplished  ;  we  know  what  we  have 


SPINOZA. 


149 


done,  and  we  may  infer  from  liavmg  done  it 
that  our  power  was  equal  to  what  it  achieved. 
But  it  is  easy  for  us  to  overrate  our  strength  if 
we  try  to  measure  our  abilities  in  themselves. 
A  man  who  can  leap  five  yards  may  think  that 
he  can  leap  six  ;  yet  he  may  try  and  fail,  A 
man  who  can  write  prose  may  only  learn  that 
he  cannot  write  poetry  from  the  badness  of  the 
verses  which  he  produces.  To  the  appeal  to 
consciousness  of  power  there  is  always  an 
answer  : — that  we  may  believe  ourselves  to 
possess  it,  but  that  experience  proves  that  we 
may  be  deceived. 

There  is,  however,  another  group  of  feel- 
ings which  cannot  be  set  aside  in  this  way, 
which  do  prove  that,  in  some  sense  or  other, 
in  some  degree  or  other,  we  are  the  authors  of 
our  own  actions.  It  is  one  of  the  clearest  of 
all  inward  phenomena,  that  where  two  or  more 
courses  involving  moral  issues  are  before  us, 
whether  we  have  a  consciousness  of  power  to 
choose  between  them  or  not,  we  have  a  conscious- 
ness that  we  ought  to  choose  between  them  ; 
a  sense  of  duty — on  Scl  tovto  ifpaTTetr 
— as  Aristotle  expresses  it,  which  we  cannot 
shake  oH.  Whatever  this  consciousness  in- 
volves (and  some  measure  of  freedom  it  must 
involve  or  it  is  nonsense),  the  feeling  exists 
within  us,  and  refuses  to  yield  before  all  the 
batteries  of  logic.  It  is  not  that  of  the  two 
courses  we  know  that  one  is  in  the  long  ruil 
the  best,  and  the  other  more  immediately 
tempting.  We  have  a  sense  of  obligation  ir- 
respective of  consequence,  the  violation  of 
which  is  followed  again  by  a  sense  of  self- 
disapprobation,  of  censure,  of  blame.  In  vain 
will  Spinoza  tell  us  that  such  feelings,  incom- 
patible as  they  are  with  the  theory  of  power- 
lessness,  are  mistakes  arising  out  of  a  false 
philosophy.  They  are  primary  facts  of  sensa- 
tion most  vivid  in  minds  of  most  vigorous 
sensibility ;  and  although  they  may  be  ex- 
tinguished by  habitual    profligacy,  or  possibly, 


T50 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


perhaps,  destroyed  by  logic,  the  paralysis  of 
the  conscience  is  no  more  a  proof  that  it  is 
not  a  real  power  of  perceiving  real  things, 
than  blindness  is  a  proof  tliat  sight  is  not  a  real 
power.  The  perceptions  of  worth  and  worth- 
lessness  are  not  conclusions  of  reasoning,  but 
immediate  sensations  like  those  of  seeing  and 
hearing  ;  and  although,  like  the  other  senses, 
they  may  be  mistaken  sometimes  in  the  ac- 
counts they  render  to  us,  the  fact  of  the  ex- 
istence of  such  feelings  at  all  proves  that  there 
is  something  which  corresponds  to  them.  If 
there  be  any  such  things  as  '  true  ideas,'  or 
clear,  distinct  perceptions  at  all,  this  of  praise 
and  blame  is  one  of  them,  and  according  to 
Spinoza's  own  rule  we  must  accept  what  it 
involves.  And  it  involves  that  somewhere  or 
other  the  influence  of  causes  ceases  to  ©perate, 
and  that  some  degree  of  power  there  is  in 
men  of  self-determination,  by  the  amount  of 
which,  and  not  by  their  specific  actions,  moral 
merit  or  demerit  is  to  be  measured.  Specula- 
tive difficulties  remain  in  abundance.  It  will 
be  said  in  a  case,  e.  g.  of  moral  trial,  that 
there  may  have  been  p07acr ;  but  was  there 
power  enough  to  resist  the  temptation  ?  If 
there  was,  then  it  was  resisted.  If  there  was 
not,  there  was  no  responsibility.  We  must 
answer  again  from  practical  instinct.  We  re- 
fuse to  allow  men  to  be  considered  all  equally 
guilty  who  have  committed  the  same  faults  ; 
and  v*e  insist  that  their  actions  must  be  meas- 
ured against  their  opportunities.  But  a  similar 
conviction  assures  us  that  there  is  somewhere 
a  point  of  freedom.  Where  that  point  is — ■ 
where  other  influences  terminate,  and  re- 
sponsibility begins — will  always  be  of  intricate 
and  often  impossible  solution.  But  if  there 
be  such  a  point  at  all,  it  is  fatal  to  necessita- 
rianism, and  man  is  what  he  has  been  hither- 
to supposed  to  be — an  exception  in  the  order 
of  nature,  with  a  power  not  differing  in  degree 
but  differing  in  kind  from  those  of  other  crea- 


SPINOZA.  151 

tures.  Moral  life,  like  all  life,  is  a  mystery  ; 
and  as  to  anatomize  the  body  will  not  reveal 
the  secret  of  animation,  so  with  the  actions  of 
the  moral  man.  The  spiritual  life,  which 
alone  gives  them  meaning  and  being,  glides 
awav  before  the  logical  dissecting  knife,  and 
leaves  it  but  a  corpse  to  work  upon. 


•    THE  DISSOLUTION 
OF  THE  MONASTERIES.* 


To  be  entirely  just  in  our  estimate  of  other 
ages  is  not  difificult — it  is  impossible.  Even 
what  is  passing  in  our  presence  we  see  but 
through  a  glass  darkly.  The  mind  as  well  as 
the  eye  adds  something  of  its  own,  before  an 
image,  even  of  the  clearest  object,  can  be 
painted  upon  it. 

And  in  historical  inquiries,  the  most  in- 
structed thinkers  have  but  a  limited  advantage 
over  the  most  illiterate.  Those  who  know  the 
most,  approach  least  to  agreement.  The  most 
careful  investigations  are  diverging  roads— the 
further  men  travel  upon  them,  the  greater  the 
interval  by  which  they  are  divided.  In  the 
eyes  of  David  Hume  the  history  of  the  Saxon 
Princes  is  'the  scuffling  of  kites  and  crows.' 
Father  Newman  would  mortify  the  conceit  of  a 
degenerate  England  by  pointing  to  the  sixty 
saints  and  the  hundred  confessors  who  were 
trained  in  her  royal  palaces  for  the  Calendar 
of  the  Blessed.  How  vast  a  chasm  yawns  be- 
tween these  two  conceptions  of  the  same  era  ! 
Through  what  common  term  can  the  student 
pass  from  one  into  the  other  ? 

Or,  to  take  an  instance  yet  more  noticeable. 
The  history  of  England  scarcely  interests  Mr. 
Macaulay  before  the  Revolution  of  the  seven- 
teenth contury.  To  Lord  John  Russell,  the 
Reformation  was  the  first  outcome  from  cen- 

*Yxom  Fraser's  Marazine,  iSo. 


154 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


turies  of  folly  and  ferocity  ;  and  Mr.  Hallam's 
more  temperate  language  softens,  without  con- 
cealing, a  similar  conclusion.  These  writers 
have  all  studied  what  they  describe.  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  has  studied  the  same  subject  with  power 
at  least  equal  to  theirs,  and  to  him  the  great- 
ness of  English  character  was  waning  with  the 
dawn  of  English  literature  ;  the  race  of  heroes 
was  already  failing.  The  era  of  action  was 
yielding  before  the  era  of  speech. 

All  these  views  may  seem  to  ourselves  exag- 
gerated ;  we  may  have  settled  into  some  mod- 
erate via  mcdia^  or  have  carved  out  our  own 
ground  on  an  original  pattern  ;  but  if  we  are 
wise,  the  differences  in  other  men's  judgments 
will  teach  us  to  be  diffident.  The  more  dis- 
tinctly we  have  made  history  bear  witness  in 
favor  of  our  particular  opinions,  the  more  we 
have  multiplied  the  chances  against  the  truth 
of  our  own  theory. 

Again,  supposing  that  we  have  made  a  truce 
with  '  opinions,'  properly  so  called  ;  supposing 
we  have  satisfied  ourselves  that  it  is  idle  to 
quarrel  upon  points  on  which  good  men  differ, 
^nd  that  it  is  better  to  attend  rather  to  what 
we  certainly  knov/  ;  supposing  that,  either  from 
superior  wisdom,  or  from  the  conceit  of  supe- 
rior wisdom,  we  have  resolved  that  we  will  look 
for  human  perfection  neither  exclusively  in  the 
Old  World  nor  exclusively  in  the  New — neither 
among  Catholics  nor  Protestants,  among  Whigs 
or  Tories,  heathens  or  Christians — that  we 
have  laid  aside  accidental  differences,  and  de- 
termined to  recognize  only  moral  distinctions, 
to  love  moral  worth,  and  to  hate  moral  evil, 
wherever  we  find  them  ; — even  supposing  all 
this,  we  have  not  much  improved  our  position 
— we  cannot  leap  from  our  shadow. 

Eras,  like  individuals,  differ  from  one  another 
in  the  species  of  virtue  which  they  encourage. 
In  one  age,  we  find  the  virtues  of  the  warrior ; 
in  the  next,  of  the  saint.  The  ascetic  and  the 
soldier  in  their  turn  disappear ;  an  industrial 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES. 


155 


era  succeeds,  brinjring  with  it  the  virtues  of 
common  sense,  of  grace,  and  refinement. 
There  is  the  virtue  of  energy  and  command, 
there  is  the  virtue  of  humility  and  patient  suf- 
fering. All  these  are  different,  and  all  are,  or 
may  be,  of  equal  moral  value ;  yet,  from  the 
constitution  of  our  minds,  we  are  so  framed 
that  we  cannot  equally  appreciate  all ;  we  sym- 
pathize instinctively  with  the  person  who  most 
represents  our  own  ideal — with  the  period  when 
the  graces  which  most  harmonize  with  our  own 
tempers  have  been  especially  cultivated.  Fur- 
ther, if  we  leave  out  of  sight  these  refinements, 
and  content  ourselves  with  the  most  popular 
conceptions  of  morality,  there  is  this  immeas- 
urable difficulty — so  great,  yet  so  little  consid- 
ered,— that  goodness  is  positive  as  well  as 
negative,  and  consists  in  the  active  accom- 
plishment of  certain  things  which  we  are  bound 
to  do,  as  well  as  in  the  abstaining  from  things 
we  are  not  bound  not  to  do.  And  here  the  warp 
and  woof  vary  in  shade  and  pattern.  Many  a 
man,  with  the  help  of  circumstances,  may  pick 
his  way  clear  through  life,  having  never  violated 
one  prohibitive  commandment,  and  yet  at  last 
be  fit  only  for  the  place  of  the  unprofitable  ser- 
vant— he  may  not  have  committed  either  sin 
or  crime,  yet  never  have  felt  the  pulsation  of  a 
single  unselfish  emotion.  Another,  meanwhile, 
shall  liave  been  hurried  by  an  impulsive  nature 
into  fault  after  fault — shall  have  been  reck- 
less, improvident,  perhaps  profligate,  yet  be 
fitter  after  all  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than 
the  Pharisee — fitter,  because  against  the  cata- 
logue of  faults  there  could  perhaps  be  set  a 
fairer  list  of  acts  of  comparative  generosity 
and  self-forgetfulness — fitter,  because  to  those 
who  love  much,  much  is  forgiven.  Fielding 
had  no  occasion  to  make  Blifil,  behind  his  de- 
cent coat,  a  traitor  and  a  hypocrite.  It  would 
have  been  enough  to  have  colored  him  in  and 
out  alike  in  the  steady  hues  of  selfishness,  afraid 
of  offending  the  upper  powers  as  he  was  afraid 


156  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

of  offending  AUworthy — not  from  any  love  for 
for  what  was  good,  but  solely  because  it  would 
be  imprudent — because  the  pleasure  to  be 
gained  was  not  worth  the  risk  of  consequences. 
Such  a  Elifil  would  have  answered  the  novelist's 
purpose — for  he  would  have  remained  a  worse 
man  in  the  estimation  of  some  of  us  than  Tom 
Jones. 

So  the  truth  is ;  but  unfortunately  it  is  only 
where  accurate  knowledge  is  stimulated  by  af- 
fection, that  we  are  able  to  feel  it.  Persons 
who  live  beyond  our  own  circle,  and,  still  more, 
persons  who  have  lived  in  another  age,  receive 
what  is  called  justice,  not  charity  ;  and  justice 
is  supposed  to  consist  in  due  allotments  of  cen- 
sure for  each  special  act  of  misconduct,  leav- 
ing merit  unrecognized.  There  are  many  rea- 
sons for  this  harsh  method  of  judging.  We 
must  decide  of  men  by  what  we  know,  and  it  is 
easier  to  know  faults  than  to  know  virtues. 
Faults  are  specific,  easily  described,  easily  ap- 
preciated, easily  remembered.  And  again, 
there  is,  or  may  be,  hypocrisy  in  virtue  ;  but 
no  one  pretends  to  vice  who  is  not  vicious. 
The  bad  things  which  can  be  proved  of  a  man 
we  know  to  be  genuine.  He  was  a  spendthrift, 
he  was  an  adulterer,  he  gambled,  he  equivo- 
cated. These  are  blots  positive,  unless  un- 
true, and  when  they  stand  alone,  tinge  the 
whole  character. 

This  also  is  to  be  observed  in  historical 
criticism.  All  men  feel  a  necessity  of  being  on 
some  terms  with  their  conscience,  at  their  own 
expense  or  at  another's.  If  they  cannot  part 
with  their  faults,  they  will  at  least  call  them  by 
their  right  name  when  they  meet  with  such 
faults  elsewhere  ;  and  thus,  when  they  find 
account  of  deeds  of  violence  or  sensuality,  of 
tyranny,  of  injustice  of  man  to  man,  of  great 
and  extensive  suffering,  or  any  of  those  other 
misfortunes  which  the  selfishness  of  men  has 
at  various  times  occasioned,  they  will  vituper- 
ate the  doers  of  such  tilings,  and  the  age  which 


DJSSOL UTION  OF  MONASTERIES.     1 5 7 

has  permitted  them  to  be  done,  with  the  full 
emphasis  of  virtuous  indii;nation,  while  all  the 
time  they  are  themselves  doing  things  which 
will  be  described,  with  no  less  justice,  in  the 
same  colors,  by  an  equally  virtuous  posterity. 

Historians  are  fond  of  recording  the  sup- 
posed sufferings  of  the  poor  in  the  days  of 
serfdom  and  villenage  ;  yet  the  records  of  the 
strikes  of  the  last  ten  years,  when  told  by  the 
sufferers,  contain  pictures  no  less  fertile  in 
tragedy.  We  speak  of  famines  and  plagues 
under  the  Tudors  and  Stuarts  ;  but  the  Irish 
famine,  and  the  Irish  plague  of  1847,  the  last 
page  of  such  horrors  which  has  yet  been  turned 
over,  is  the  most  horrible  of  all.  We  can  con- 
ceive a  description  of  England  during  the  year 
which  has  just  closed  over  us  (1856),  true  in 
all  its  details,  containing  no  one  statement 
which  can  be  challenged,  no  single  exaggera- 
tion which  can  be  proved  ;  and  this  descrip- 
tion, if  given  without  the  correcting  traits,  shall 
make  ages  to  come  marvel  why  the  Cities  of 
the  Plain  were  destroyed,  and  England  was 
allowed  to  survive.  The  frauds  of  trusted  men, 
high  in  power  and  high  in  supposed  religion  ; 
the  wholesale  poisonings  ;  the  robberies ;  the 
adulteration  of  food — nay,  of  almost  everything 
exposed  for  sale — the  cruel  usage  of  women — 
children  murdered  for  the  burial  fees — life  and 
property  insecure  in  open  day  in  the  open 
streets — splendor  such  as  the  world  never  saw 
before  upon  earth,  with  vice  and  squalor  crouch- 
ing under  its  walls — let  all  this  be  written  down 
by  an  enemy,  or  let  it  be  ascertained  hereafter 
by  the  investigation  of  a  posterity  which  desires 
to  judge  us  as  we  generally  have  judged  our 
forefathers,  and  few  years  will  show  darker  in 
the  English  annals  than  the  year  which  we  have 
just  left  behind  us.  Yet  we  know,  in  the  hon- 
esty of  our  hearts,  how  unjust  such  a  picture 
would  be.  Our  future  advocate,  if  we  are  so 
happy  as  to  find  one,  may  not  be  able  to  dis- 
prove a  single   article  in  the  indictment  ;  and 


158 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


yet  we  know  that,  as  the  world  goes,  he  will  be 
right  if  he  marks  the  year  with  a  white  stroke 
— as  one  in  which,  on  the  whole,  the  moral 
harvest  was  better  than  an  average. 

Once  more  :  our  knowledge  of  any  man  is 
always  inadequate — even  of  the  unit  which 
each  of  us  calls  himself  ;  and  the  first  condition 
under  which  we  can  know  a  man  at  all  is,  that 
he  be  in  essentials  something  like  ourselves; 
that  our  own  experience  be  an  interpreter  which 
shall  open  the  secrets  of  his  experience  ;  and 
it  often  happens,  even  among  our  contempo- 
raries, that  we  are  altogether  baffled.  The  Eng- 
lishman and  the  Italian  may  understand  each 
other's  speech,  but  the  language  of  each  other's 
ideas  has  still  to  be  learnt.  Our  long  failures 
in  Ireland  have  arisen  from  a  radical  incon- 
gruity of  character  which  has  divided  the  Celt 
from  the  Saxon.  And  again,  in  the  same 
country,  the  Catholic  will  be  a  mystery  to  the 
Protestant,  and  the  Protestant  to  the  Catholic. 
Their  intellects  have  been  shaped  in  opposite 
moulds  ;  they  are  like  instruments  which  can- 
not be  played  in  concert.  In  the  same  way, 
but  in  a  far  higher  degree,  we  are  divided  from 
the  generations  which  have  preceded  us  in  this 
planet — we  try  to  comprehend  a  Pericles  or  a 
Caisar — an  image  rises  before  us  which  we 
seem  to  recognize  as  belonging  to  our  common 
humanity.  There  is  this  feature  which  is 
familiar  to  us — and  this — and  this.  We  are 
full  of  hope  ;  the  lineaments,  one  by  one,  pass 
into  clearness  ;  when  suddenly  the  figure  be- 
comes enveloped  in  a  cloud — some  perplexity 
crosses  our  analysis,  baflling  it  utterly,  the 
phantom  which  we  have  evoked  dies  away  be- 
fore our  eyes,  scornfully  mocking  our  incapa- 
city to  master  it. 

The  English  antecedent  to  the  Reformation 
are  nearer  to  us  than  Greeks  or  Romans  ;  and 
yet  there  is  a  large  interval  between  the  baron 
who  fought  at  Barnet  field,  and  his  polished 
descendant   in  a  modern   drawing-room.     The  , 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES. 


159 


scale  of  appreciation  and  the  rule  of  judg- 
ment— the  habits,  the  hopes,  the  fears,  the 
emotions — have  utterly  changed. 

In  perusing  modern  histories,  the  present 
writer  has  been  struck  dumb  with  wonder  at. 
the  facility  with  which  men  will  fill  in  chasms 
in  their  information  with  conjecture  ;  will  guess 
at  the  motives  which  have  prompted  actions  ; 
will  pass  their  censures,  as  if  all  secrets  of  the 
past  lay  out  on  an  open  scroll  before  them. 
He  is  obliged  to  say  for  himself  that,  wherever 
he  has  been  fortunate  enough  to  discover  au- 
thentic explanations  of  English  historical  diffi- 
culties, it  is  rare  indeed  that  he  has  found  any 
conjecture,  either  of  his  own  or  of  any  other 
modern  writer,  confirmed.  The  true  motive 
has  almost  invariably  been  of  a  kind  which  no 
modern  experience  could  have  suggested. 

Thoughts  such  as  these  form  a  hesitating 
prelude  to  an  expression  of  opinion  on  a  con- 
troverted question.  They  will  serve,  however, 
to  indicate  the  limits  within  which  the  said 
opinion  is  supposed  to  be  hazarded.  And  in 
fact,  neither  in  this  nor  in  any  historical  sub- 
ject is  the  conclusion  so  clear  that  it  can  be 
enunciated  in  a  definite  form.  The  utmost 
which  can  be  safely  hazarded  with  history  is  to 
relate  honestly  ascertained  facts,  with  only  such 
indications  of  a  judicial  sentence  upon  them 
as  may  be  suggested  in  the  form  in  which  the 
story  is  arranged. 

Whether  the  monastic  bodies  of  England,  at 
the  time  of  their  dissolution,  were  really  in  that 
condition  of  moral  corruption  which  is  laid 
to  t  heir  charge  in  the  Act  of  Parliament  by 
which  they  were  dissolved,  is  a  point  which 
it  seems  hopeless  to  argue.  Roman  Catholic, 
and  indeed  almost  all  English,  writers  who 
are  not  committed  to  an  unfavorable  opinion 
by  the  ultra-Protestantism  of  their  doctrines, 
seem  to  have  agreed  of  late  years  that  the 
accusations,  if  not  false,  were  enormously  ex- 
ajTserated.     The   dissolution,  we  are  told,  was 


l(3o  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

a  predetermined  act  of  violence  and  rapacity; 
and  when  the  reports  and  the  letters  of  the 
visitors  are  quoted  in  justification  of  the  Gov- 
ernment, the  discussion  is  closed  with  the  dis- 
missal of  every  unfavorable  witness  from  the 
court,  as  venal,  corrupt,  calumnious — in  fact, 
as  a  suborned  liar.  Upon  these  terms  the 
argument  is  easily  disposed  of  ;  and  if  it  were 
not  that  truth  is  in  all  matters  better  than 
falsehood,  it  would  be  idle  to  reopen  a  question 
which  cannot  be  justly  dealt  with.  No  evi- 
dence can  affect  convictions  which  have  been 
arrived  at  without  evidence — and  why  should 
we  attempt  a  task  which  it  is  hopeless  to  ac- 
complish ?  It  seems  necessary,  however,  to 
reassert  the  actual  state  of  the  surviving  testi- 
mony from  time  to  time,  if  it  be  only  to  sus- 
tain the  links  of  the  old  traditions  ;  and  the 
jDresent  paper  will  contain  one  or  two  pictures 
of  a  peculiar  kind,  exhibiting  the  life  and  habits 
of  those  institutions,  which  have  been  lately 
met  with  chiefly  among  theunprinted  Records. 
— In  anticipation  of  any  possible  charge  of  un- 
fairness in  judging  from  isolated  instances,  we 
disclaim  simply  all  desire  to  judge — all  wish 
to  do  anything  beyond  relating  certain  as- 
certained stories.  Let  it  remain,  to  those  who 
are  perverse  enough  to  insist  upon  it,  an  open 
question  whether  the  monasteries  were  more 
corrupt  under  Henry  the  Eighth  than  they  had 
been  four  hundred  years  earlier.  The  dissolu- 
tion would  have  been  equally  a  necessity;  for 
no  reasonable  person  would  desire  that  bodies 
of  men  should  have  been  maintained  for  the 
only  business  of  singing  masses,  when  the  effi- 
cacy of  masses  was  no  longer  believed.  Our 
present  desire  is  merely  this — to  satisfy  our- 
selves whether  the  Government,  in  discharging 
a  duty  which  could  not  be  dispensed  with,  con- 
descended to  falsehood  in  seeking  a  vindica- 
tion for  themselves  which  they  did  not  require; 
or  whether  they  had  cause  really  to  believe  the 
majority  of  the  monastic  bodies  to  be  as  they 


DISSOL  UTION  OF  MONAS  TEKIES.     1 6  r 

affirmed — whether,  that  is  to  saj',  there  really 
were  such  cases  either  of  flagrant  immorality, 
neglect  of  discipline,  or  careless  waste  and 
prodigality,  as  to  justify  the  general  censure 
which  was  pronounced  against  the  system  by 
the  Parliament  and  the  Privy  Council. 

Secure  in  the   supposed  completeness  with 
which  Queen  Mary's  agents  destroyed  the  Rec- 
ords of  the  visitation  under  her  father,  Roman 
Catholic  writers  have  taken  refuge   in  a  dis- 
dainful denial ;  and  the  Anglicans,  who  for  the 
most  part,  while  contented  to  enjoy  the  fruits 
of  the  Reformation,  detest  the  means  by  which 
it  was  brought   about,  have   taken   the    same 
view.     Bishop  Latimer  tells  us,  that,  when  the 
Report  of  the  visitors  of  the  abbeys  was  read 
in  the  Commons   House,  there  rose  from   all 
sides  one  long  cry  of  '  Down  with  them.'     But 
Bishop  Latimer,  in  the  opinion  of  High  Church- 
men, is  not  to  be  believed.       Do  wc  produce 
letters  of  the  visitors  themselves,  we  are  told 
that  they  are    the  slanders  prepared  to  justify 
a    preconceived   purpose    of  spoliation.      No 
witness,  it  seems,  will  be  admitted  unless  it  be 
the  witness  of  a  friend.      Unless  some  enemy 
of  the   Reformation  can  be   found  to  confess 
the  crimes  which  made  the  Reformation  neces- 
sary, the  crimes  themselves  are  to  be  regarded 
as  unproved.      This  is  a  hard  condition.     We 
appeal  to  Wolse}'.      Wolsey   commenced    the 
suppression.      Wolsey  first   made    public    the 
infamies  which  disgraced   the  Church  ;  while, 
notwithstanding,  he  died  the  devoted  servant 
of  the  Church.      This  evidence    is  surely  ad- 
missible }     But  no  :  Wolsey,  too,  must  be  put 
out  of  court.       Wolsey  was   a  courtier  and  a 
time-server.     Wolsey    was   a   tyrant's  minion. 
Wolsev    was  —  in    short,    we   know   not    what 
Wolsey  was,  or  what   he  was  not.     Who  can 
put  confidence   in  a   charlatan  ?      Behind  the 
bulwarks  of  such  objections,  the  champion  of 
the  abbeys  may  well  believe  himself  secure. 
And   yet,    unreasonable    though   these    de- 


1 62  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

mands  may  be,  it  happens,  after  all,  that  we  are 
able  partially  to  gratify  them.  It  is  strange 
that,  of  all  extant  accusations  against  any  qne 
of  the  abbeys,  the  heaviest  is  from  a  quarter 
which  even  Lingard  himself  would  scarcely  call 
suspicious.  No  picture  left  us  by  Henry's 
visitors  surpasses,  even  if  it  equals,  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  condition  of  the  Abbey  of  St  Albans, 
in  the  last  quarter  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
drawn  by  Morton,  Henry  the  Seventh's  minis- 
ter. Cardinal  Archbishop,  Legate  of  the  Apos- 
tolic See,  in  a  letter  addressed  by  him  to  the 
Abbot  or  St  Albans  himself.  We  must  request 
our  reader's  special  attention  for  the  next  two 
pages. 

In  the  year  1489,  Pope  Innocent  the  Eighth 
—  moved  with  the  enormous  stories  which 
reached  his  ear  of  the  corruption  of  the  houses 
of  religion  in  England — granted  a  commission 
to  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  to  make  in- 
quiries whether  these  stories  were  true,  and  to 
proceed  to  correct  and  reform  as  might  seem 
good  to  him.  The  regular  clergy  were  exempt 
from  episcopal  visitation,  except  under  especial 
directions  from  Rome.  The  occasion  had 
appeared  so  serious  as  to  make  extraordinary 
interference  necessary. 

On  the  receipt  of  the  Papal  commission. 
Cardinal  Morton,  among  other  letters,  wrote 
the  following  letter  : — 

John,  by  Divine  permission,  Arclibishop  of  Cantebury 
Primate  of  a!l  England,  Legate  of  tlic  Apostolic  See,  to 
William,  Abbot  of  the  Monastery  of  St  Albans,  greet- 
ing. 

We  have  received  certain  letters  under  lead,  the 
copies  whereof  we  herewitli  send  you,  from  our  most 
holy  Lord  and  Father  in  Christ,  Innocent,  by  Divine 
Providence  Pope,  the  eighth  of  that  name.  We  there- 
fore, John,  the  Archbishop,  the  visitor,  reformer,  in- 
quisitor, and  judge  therein  mentioned,  in  reverence  for 
the  Ai)ostolic  Sec,  liave  taken  ujion  ourselves  the  burden 
of  enforcing  the  said  commission  ;  and  have  determined 
that  we  will  proceed  by,  and  according  to,  the  full  force, 
tenor,  and  effect  of  the  same. 

And  it  has  cume  to  our  ears,  being  at  once  publicly 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES.    163 

notorious  and  brought  before  us  upon  the  testimony  of 
many  witnesses  worthy  of  credit,  that  you,  tlie  abbot 
afore-mciitioned,  liavc  been  of  long  time  noted  and 
diffamed,  and  do  yet  continue  so  noted,  of  simony,  of 
usury,  of  dilapidation  and  waste  of  the  goods,  revenues, 
and  possessions  of  the  said  monastery,  and  of  certain 
other  enormous  crimes  and  excesses  hereafter  written. 
In  tJie  rule,  custody,  and  administration  of  the  goods, 
spiritual  and  temporal,  of  the  said  monastery  you  are  so 
remiss,  so  negligent,  so  prodigal^  that  whereas  the  said 
monastery  was  of  old  times  founded  and  endowed  by  the 
pious  devotion  of  illustrious  princes,  of  famous  memory, 
heretofore  kings  of  this  land,  the  most  noble  progenitors 
of  our  most  serene  Lord  and  King  that  now  is,  in  order 
that  true  religion  might  flourish  there,  that  the  name  of 
the  Most  High,  in  whose  honor  and  glory  it  was  insti- 
tuted, might  be  duly  celebrated  there; 

And  whereas,  in  days  heretofore,  the  regular  observ- 
ance of  the  said  rule  'was  greatly  regarded,  and  hospi- 
tality was  diligently  kept; 

Nevertheless,  for  no  little  time,  during  which  you  have 
presided  in  the  same  monastery,  you  and  certain  of  your 
fellow-monks  and  brethren  (whose  blood,  it  is  feared, 
through  your  neglect,  a  severe  Judge  will  require  at 
your  hand)  have  relaxed  the  measure  and  form  of  re- 
ligious life;  you  have  laid  aside  the  pleasant  yoke  of 
contemplation,  and  all  regular  observances — hospitality, 
alms,  and  those  other  offices  of  piety  which  of  old  time 
were  exercised  and  ministered  therein  have  decreased, 
and  by  your  faults,  your  carelessness,  your  neglect  and 
deed,  do  daily  decrease  more  and  more,  and  cease  to  be 
regarded — the  pious  vows  of  the  founders  are  defrauded 
of  "their  just  intent — the  ancient  rule  of  your  order  is 
deserted;  and  not  a  few  of  your  fellow-monks  and 
brethren,  as  we  most  deeply  grieve  to  learn,  giving 
themselves  over  to  a  reprobate  mind,  laying  aside  the 
fear  of  God,  do  lead  only  a  life  of  lasciviousness — nay, 
as  is  horrible  to  relate,  be  not  afraid  to  defile  the  holy 
places,  even  the  very  churches  of  God,  by  infamous 
intercourse  with  nuns,  &c.  &c. 

You  yourself,  moreover,  among  other  grave  enormi- 
ties and  abominable  crimes  whereof  you  are  guilty,  and 
for  which  you  are  noted  and  diffamed,  have,  in  the  first 
place,  admitted  a  certain  married  woman,  named  Elena 
Germyn,  who  has  separated  herself  without  just  cause 
from  her  husband,  and  for  some  time  past  has  lived  in 
adultery  with  another  man,  to  be  a  nun  or  sister  in  the 
house  or  Priory  of  Bray,  lying,  as  you  pretend,  within 
your  jurisdiction.  You  have  next  appointed  the  same 
woman  to  be  prioress  of  the  said  house,  notwithstanding 
that  her  said  iuisband  was  living  at  the  time,  and  is  still 
alive.  And  finally.  Father  Thomas  Sudbury,  one  of 
your  brother  monks,  publicly,  notoriously,  and   without 


164  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

interference  or  punishment  from  you,  has  associated, 
and  still  associates  with  tliis  woman  as  an  adulterer 
with  his  harlot. 

Moreover,  divers  other  of  your  brethren  and  fellow- 
monks  have  resorted,  and  do  resort,  continually  to  her 
and  other  women  at  the  same  place,  as  to  a  public 
brothel  or  receiving  house,  and  have  received  no  cor- 
rection therefor. 

Nor  is  Bray  the  only  house  into  which  you  have  in- 
troduced disorder.  At  the  nunnery  of  Sapwell,  which 
you  also  contend  to  be  under  your  jurisdiction,  you 
change  the  prioresses  and  superiors  again  and  again  at 
your  own  will  and  caprice.  Here,  as  well  as  at  Bray, 
you  depose  those  who  are  good  and  religious;  you  pro- 
mote to  the  highest  dignities  the  worthless  and  the 
vicious.  The  duties  of  the  order  are  cast  aside  ;  virtue 
is  neglected;  and  by  these  means  so  much  cost  and  ex- 
travagance has  been  caused,  that  to  provide  means  for 
your  indulgence  yon  have  introduced  certain  of  your 
brethren  to  preside  in  their  houses  under  the  name  of 
guardians,  when  in  fact  they  are  no  guardians,  but 
thieves  and  notorious  villains;  and  with  their  help  you 
have  caused  and  permitted  the  goods  of  the  same  priories 
to  be  dispensed,  or  to  speak  more  truly  to  be  dissipated, 
in  the  above-described  corruptions  and  other  enormous 
and  accursed  offences.  Those  places  once  religious  are 
rendered  and  reputed  as  it  were  profane  and  impious; 
and  i)y  your  own  and  ycnir  creatures'  conduct,  are  so 
im|)ovcri,slierl  as  to  be  be  rcducetl  to  the  verge  of  ruin. 

In  like  manner,  also,  you  have  dealt  with  certain  other 
cells  of  monks  wiiich  you  say  arc  subject  to  you,  even 
within  the  monastery  of  the  glorious  proto-martyr  Alban 
himself.  You  have  dilapidated  the  common  property; 
you  have  made  away  with  the  jewels;  the  copses,  the 
woods,  the  underwood,  almost  all  the  oaks,  and  other 
forest  trees,  to  the  value  of  eight  thousand  marks  and 
more,  you  iiave  made  to  be  cut  down  without  distinction, 
and  they  have  by  you  been  sold  and  alienated.  The 
brethren  of  the  abbey,  some  of  whom,  as  is  rcj^orted,  are 
given  over  to  all  the  evil  things  of  the  world,  neglect 
the  service  of  God  altogether.  They  live  with  harlots 
and  mistresses  ]nil)licly  and  continuously,  within  the 
precincts  of  the  monastery  and  without.  Some  of  them, 
who  are  covetous  of  honor  and  promotion,  and  desirous 
therefore  of  pleasing  your  cuijidily,  have  stolen  and 
made  away  with  tlie  chalices  and  other  jewels  of  the 
church.  They  have  even  .sacrilegiously  extracted  the 
jjrccious  stones  from  the  very  shrine  of  St.  Alban;  and 
you  iiavc  not  ])unished  these  men,  but  have  ratlier  know- 
ingly supi)orted  and  maintained  them.  If  any  of  your 
brethren  be  living  justly  and  religiously,  if  any  l^e  wise 
and  virtuous,  these  you  straightway  depress  and  hold  in 
hatred.  .  .  .  You  .  .  . 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTER lE?^. 


M 


But  we  need  not  transcribe  further  this  over- 
whehiiing  document.    It  pursues  its  way  through 
mire  and  fdih  to  its   most  lame  and  impotent 
conclusion.     Aflcr  all  this,  the  Abbot  was  not 
deposed  ;  he  was  invited  merely  to  reconsider 
his  doings,  and,  if  possible,  amend  them.  Such 
was  Church   discipline,  even    under  an    extra- 
ordinary commission    from   Rome.       But   the 
most  incorrigible  Anglican  will  scarcely  ques- 
tion the   truth  of  a  picture   drawn   by  such  a 
hand  ;  and  it  must  be  added  that  this  one  un- 
exceptional indictment  lends   at  once  assured 
credibility  to  the  reports  which  were  presented 
fifty   years    later,    on    the   general   visitation. 
There  is  no  longer  room  for   the  presumptive 
objection  that  charges  so  revolting  could  not 
be  true.     We  see  that  in  their  worst  form  they 
could  be  true,  and   the   evidence   of  Legh  and 
Leghton,  of  Rice   and  Bedyll,  as  it  remains  in 
their  letters  to  Cromwell,  must   be  shaken  in 
detail,  or  else  it  must  be  accepted  as  correct. 
We  cannot  dream  that  Archbisliop  Morton  was 
mistaken,  or  was  misled  by  false  information. 
St.  Albans  was  no  obscure  priory  in  a   remote 
and  thinly-peopled   country.      The   Abbot    of 
St.   Albans  was  a  peer   of  the   realm,  taking 
precedence   of  bishops,  living  in  the  full  glare 
of  notoriety,  within  a  few  miles  of  London. 
The  Archbishop  had  ample  means  of  ascertain- 
ing the  truth  ;  and,  we  may  be  sure,  had  taken 
care  to  examine  his  ground  before   he  left  on 
record  so  tremendous    an    accusation.      This 
story  is  true — as  true  as  it  is  piteous.    We  will 
pause  a  moment  over  it  before  we  pass  from 
this,  once  more  to  ask  our  passionate  Church 
friends  whether  still  they  will  persist  that  the 
abbeys  were  no  worse  under  the  Tudors  than 
they  had  been  in  their  origin,  under  the  Sax- 
ony, or  under  the  first  Norman  and  Plantagenet 
kings.     We  refuse  to  believe  it.     The   abbeys 
which    towered    in  the    midst  of   the  English 
towns,  the  houses  clustered  at  their  feet  like 
subjects   round    some     maiestic   queen,   were 


1 66  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

images  indeed  of  the  civil  supremacy  which  the 
Church  of  the  Middle  Ages  had  asserted  for 
itself ;  but  they  were  images  also  of  an  inner 
spiritual  sublimity,  which  had  won  the  homage 
of  grateful  and  admiring  nations.  The  heaven- 
ly graces  had  once  descended  upon  the  monas- 
tic orders,  making  them  ministers  of  mercy, 
patterns  of  celestial  life,  breathing  witnesses 
of  the  power  of  the  Spirit  in  renewing  and 
sanctifvinir  the  heart.  And  then  it  was  that 
art  and  wealth  and  genius  poured  out  their 
treasures  to  raise  fitting  tabernacles  for  the 
dwelling  of  so  divine  a  soul.  Alike  in  the 
village  and  the  city,  amongst  the  unadorned 
walls  and  the  lowly  roofs  which  closed  in  the 
humble  dwellings  of  the  laity,  the  majestic 
houses  of  the  Father  of  mankind  and  of  his  es- 
pecial servants  rose  up  in  sovereign  beauty. 
And  ever  at  the  sacred  gates  sat  Mercy,  pour- 
ing out  relief  from  a  never-failing  store  to  the 
poor  and  the  suffering ;  ever  within  the  sacred 
aisles  the  voices  of  holy  men  were  pealing 
heavenwards  in  intercession  for  the  sins  of 
mankind ;  and  such  blessed  influences  were 
thought  to  exhale  around  those  mysterious 
precincts,  that  even  the  poor  outcasts  of  society, 
— the  debtor,  the  felon,  and  the  outlaw — 
gathered  around  the  walls  as  the  sick  men 
sought  the  shadow,  of  the  apostles,  and  lay 
there  sheltered  from  the  avenging  hand,  till 
their  sins  were  washed  from  off  their  souls. 
The  abbeys  of  the  middle  ages  floated  through 
the  storms  of  war  and  conquest,  like  the  ark 
upon  the  waves  of  the  floocl,  in  the  midst  of 
violence  remaining  inviolate,  through  awful 
reverence  which  surrounded  them.  The  abbeys, 
as  Henry's  visitors  found  them,  were  as  little 
like  what  they  once  had  been,  as  the  living 
man  in  the  jiride  of  his  growth  is  like  the  corpse 
which  the  earth  makes  haste  to  hide  for- 
ever. 

The  official  letters  which  reveal  the  condition 
into   which  the    monastic   establishments  had 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES.     167 

degenerated,  are  chiefly  in  the  Cotton  Library, 
and  a  large  number  of  them  have  been  pub- 
lished by  the  Camden  Society.  Besides  these, 
however,  tliere  are  in  tlie  Rolls  House  many 
other  documents  which  confirm  and  complete 
the  statements  of  the  writers  of  those  letters. 
There  is  a  part  of  what  seems  to  have  been  a 
digest  of  the  '  Black  Book ' — an  epitome  of 
iniquities,  under  the  title  of  the  '  Compendium 
Compertorum.'  There  are  also  reports  from 
private  persons,  private  entreaties  for  inquiry, 
depositions  of  monks  in  ofiicial  examinations, 
and  other  similar  papers,  which,  in  many  in- 
stances, are  too  offensive  to  be  produced,  and 
may  rest  in  obscurity,  unless  contentious  per- 
sons compel  us  to  bring  them  forward.  Some 
of  these,  however,  throw  curious  light  on  the 
habits  of  the  time,  and  on  the  collateral  disor- 
ders which  accompanied  the  more  gross  enor- 
mities. They  show  us,  too,  that  although  the 
dark  tints  predominate,  the  picture  was  not 
wholly  black ;  that  as  just  Lot  was  in  the 
midst  of  Sodom,  yet  was  unable  by  his  signal 
presence  to  save  the  guilty  city  from  destruc- 
tion, so  in  the  latest  era  of  monasticism  there 
were  types  yet  lingering  of  an  older  and  fairer 
age,  who,  nevertheless,  were  not  delivered,  like 
the  patriarch,  but  perished  most  of  them  with 
the  institution  to  which  they  belonged.  The 
hideous  exposure  is  not  untinted  with  fairer 
lines ;  and  we  see  traits  here  and  there  of  true 
devotion,  mistaken  but  heroic. 

Of  these  documents,  two  specimens  shall  be 
given  in  this  place,  one  of  either  kind  ;  and 
both,  so  far  as  we  know,  new  to  modern  history. 
The  first  is  so  singular,  that  we  print  it  as  it  is 
found. — a  genuine  antique,  fished  up,  in  perfect 
preservation,  out  of  the  wreck  of  the  old 
world. 

About  eight  miles  from  Ludlow,  in  the  county 
of  Herefordshire,  once  stood  the  Abbey  of 
Wifi:more.  There  was  Wigmore  Castle  a 
stronghold   of  the    Welsh  Marches,    now,    we 


J  68  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

believe,  a  modern,  well  conditioned  mansion  ; 
and  Wisfmore  Abbev,  of  which  we  do  not  hear 
that  there  are  any  remaining  traces.  Though 
now  vanished,  however,  like  so  many  of  its 
kind,  the  house  was  three  hundred  years  ago 
in  vigorous  existence  ;  and  when  the  stir  com- 
menced for  an  inquiry,  the  proceedings  of  the 
Abbot  of  this  place  gave  occasion  to  a  memo- 
rial which  stands  in  the  Rolls  collection  as  fol- 
lows :  * — 

Articles  to  be  objected  against  John  Smart,  Abbot  of 
the  Monastery  of  Wigmore,  in  the  county  of  Hereford, 
to  be  exhibited  to  the  Right  Honorable  Lord  Thomas 
Cromwell,  the  Lord  Privy  Seal  and  Vicegerent  to  the 
King's  Majesty. 

1.  The  said  abbot  is  to  be  accused  of  simony,  as  well 
for  taking  money  for  advocation  and  putations  of  bene- 
fices, as  for  giving  of  orders,  or  more  truly,  selling  them, 
and  that  to  such  persons  which  have  been  rejected  else- 
where, and  of  little  learning  and  light  consideration. 

2.  The  said  abbot  hath  promoted  to  orders  many 
scholars  when  all  other  bishops  did  refrain  to  give  such 
orders  on  account  of  certain  ordinances  devised  by  the 
King's  Majesty  and  his  Council  for  the  common  weal 
of  this  realm.  Then  resorted  to  the  said  abbot  scholars 
out  of  all  parts,  whom  he  would  promote  to  orders  by 
sixty  at  a  time,  and  sometimes  more,  and  otherwhiles 
less.  And  sometimes  the  said  abbot  would  give  orders 
by  night  within  his  chamber,  and  otherwise  in  the  church 
early  in  the  morning,  and  now  and  then  at  a  chapel  out 
of  the  abbey.  So  that  there  be  many  unlearned  and 
light  priests  made  by  the  said  abbot,  and  in  the  diocese  of 
Llandaff,  and  in  the  places  aforenamed — a  thousand,  as 
it  is  esteemed,  by  the  space  of  this  seven  years  he  hath 
made  priests,  and  received  not  so  little  money  of  them 
as  a  thousand  pounds  for  their  orders. 

3.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  now  of  late,  when  he 
could  not  be  suffered  to  give  general  orders,  for  the  most 
part  doth  give  orders  by  pretence  of  dispensation  ;  and 
by  that  color  he  ])romoteth  them  to  orders  by  two  and 
three,  and  takes  much  money  of  them,  both  for  their 
orders  and  frjr  to  purchase  their  dispensations  after  the 
time  he  hath  promoted  them  to  their  orders. 

4.  Item,  the  said  abbot  hath  hurt  and  dismayed  his 
tenants  by  putting  them  from  their-  leases,  and  by  en- 
closing their  commons  from  them,  and  selling  and  utter 
wasting  of  the  woods  that  were  wont  to  relieve  and 
succor  them. 

*  Rolls  House  MS.,  Miscellaneous  Paper s,Y\x%X  Sc- 
ries, 356. 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES.     169 

5.  Item,  the  said  al)bot  hath  sold  corradycs,  to  the 
damage  of  the  said  monastery. 

6.  Item,  the  said  abbot  hath  alienated  and  sold  the 
jewels  and  plate  of  the  monastery,  to  the  value  of  five 
hundred  marks,  to  purchase  of  tile  Bishop  of  Koine  his 
bulls  to  be  a  bishop,  and  to  aiuiex  the  said  abbey  to  his 
bishopric,  to  that  intent  that  he  should  not  for  his  misdeeds 
be  punished,  or  deprived  from  his  said  abbey. 

7.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot,  long  after  that  other 
bishops  had  renounced  the  Bishop  of  Rome,  and  pro- 
fessed them  to  the  King's  Majestv,  did  use,  but  more 
verily  usurped,  the  office  of  a  bishop  by  virtue  of  his  first 
bulls  purchased  from  Rome,  till  now  of  late,  as  it  will 
appear  by  the  date  of  his  confirmation,  if  he  have  any. 

8.  Item,  that  he  the  said  abbot  hath  lived  viciously, 
and  kept  to  concubines  divers  and  many  women  that  is 
openly  known, 

9.  item,  that  the  said  abbot  doth  yet  continue  his 
vicious  living,  as  it  is  known,  openly. 

10.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  hath  spent  and  wasted 
much  of  the  goods  of  the  said  monastery  upon  the  afore- 
said women. 

11.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  is  malicious  and  very 
wrathful,  not  regarding  what  he  saith  or  doeth  in  his 
fury  or  anger. 

12.  Item,  that  one  Richard  Gyles  bought  of  the  abbot 
and  convent  of  Wigmore  a  corradye,  and  a  chamber  for 
him  and  his  wife  for  term  of  their  lives  ;  and  when  the 
said  Richard  Gyles  was  aged  and  was  very  weak,  he  dis- 
posed his  goods,  and  made  executors  to  execute  his  will. 

And  when  the  said  abbot  now  being perceived  that 

the  said  Richard  Gyles  was  rich,  and  had  not  bequested 
so  much  of  his  goods  to  him  as  he  would  have  had,  the 
said  abbot  then  came  to  the  chamber  of  the  said  Richard 
Gyles,  and  put  out  thence  all  his  friends  and  kinsfolk 
that  kept  him  in  his  sickness  ;  and  then  the  said  abbot 
set  his  brother  and  other  of  his  servants  to  keep  the  sick 
man  ;  and  the  night  next  coming  after  the  said  Richard 
Gyles's  coffer  was  broken,  and  thence  taken  all  that  was 
in  the  same,  to  the  value  of  forty  marks ;  and  long  after 
the  said  abbot  confessed,  before  the  executors  of  the 
said  Richard  Gyles,  that  it  was  his  deed. 

13.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot,  after  he  had  taken  away 
the  goods  of  the  said  Richard  Gyles,  used  daily  to  re- 
prove and  check  the  said  Richard  Gyles,  and  inquire  of 
him  where  was  more  of  his  coin  and  money  ;  and  at  the 
last  the  said  abbot  thought  he  lived  too  long,  and  made 
the  sick  man,  after  much  sorry  keeping,  to  be  taken 
from  his  feather-bed,  and  laid  upon  a  cold  mattress, 
and  kept  his  friends  from  him  to  his  death. 

15.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  consented  to  the  death 
and  murdering  of  one  John  Tichkill,  that  was  slain  at 
his  procuring,  at  the  said  monastery,  by  Sir  Richard 
Cubley,  canon  and  chajilain  to  the  said  abbot  ;  which 


1 7  o  ills  TOKICA  L  ESS  A  YS. 

canon  is  and  ever  hath  been  since  that  time  chief  of  th«i 
said  abbot's  council ;  and  is  supported  to  carry  cross- 
bowes,  and  to  go  whither  he  lustcth  at  any  time,  to  fish- 
ing and  hunting  in  the  king's  forests,  paries,  and  chases  ; 
but  little  or  nuliiing  serving  the  quire,  as  other  brethren 
do,  neither  corrected  of  the  abbot  for  any  trespass  he 
doth  commit, 

i6.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  hath  been  perjured  oft, 
as  is  to  be  proved  ?ind  is  proved  ;  and  as  it  is  supposed, 
did  not  make  a  true  inventory  of  the  goods,  chattels,  and 
jewels  of  his  monastery  to  the  King's  Majesty  and  his 
Council, 

17.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  hath  infringed  all  the 
king's  injunctions  which  were  given  him  by  Doctor  Cave 
to  observe  and  keep ;  and  when  he  was  denounced  in 
pleno  capitula  to  have  broken  the  same,  he  would  have 
put  in  prison  the  brother  as  did  denounce  him  to  have 
broken  the  same  injunctions,  save  that  he  was  let  by  the 
convent  there. 

18.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  hath  openly  preached 
against  the  doctrine  of  Christ,  saying  he  ought  not  to 
love  his  enemy,  but  as  he  loves  the  devil ;  and  that  he 
should  love  his  enemy's  soul,  but  not  his  body. 

19.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  hath  taken  but  small 
regard  to  the  good-living  of  his  household. 

20.  Item  that  the  said  abbot  hath  had  and  hath  yet  a 
special  favor  to  misdores  and  manquellers,  thieves,  de- 
ceivers of  their  neighbors,  and  by  them  [is]  most  ruled 
and  counselled, 

21.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  hath  granted  leases  of 
farms  and  advocations  first  to  one  man,  and  took  his 
fine,  and  also  hath  granted  the  same  lease  to  another 
man  for  more  money  ;  and  then  would  make  to  the  last 
taker  a  lease  or  writing,  with  an  antedate  of  the  first 
lease,  which  had  bred  great  dissension  among  gentlemen 
— as  Master  Blunt  and  Master  Moysey,  and  other 
takers  of  such  leases — -and  that  often. 

22.  Item,  the  said  abbot  having  the  contrepaynes  of 
leases  in  liis  keeping,  hath,  for  money,  rased  out  the 
number  of  years  mentioned  in  the  said  leases,  and  writ 
a  fresli  number  in  the  former  taker's  lease,  and  in  the 
contrcpayne  thereof,  to  the  intent  to  defraud  the  taker 
ortbuycr  of  the  residence  of  such  leases  of  whom  he  hath 
received  the  money. 

23.  Item,  the  said  abbot  hath,  not  according  to  the 
foundation  of  his  monastery,  admitted  reely  tenants  into 
certain  alms-houses  Ijelonging  to  the  said  monastery  ; 
but  of  them  he  hath  taken  large  fines,  and  some  of  them 
he  hath  put  away  that  would  not  give  him  fines;  whither 
poor,  aged,  ancl  impotent  people  were  wont  to  be  freely 
admitted,  and  [to|  receive  the  founder's  alms  that  of  the 
old  customs  [were]  limited  to  the  same — which  alms  is 
also  diminished  by  the  said  abbot. 

24.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  did  not  deliver  the  bulls 


D/SSOL  UTION  OF  MONASTERIES.    1 7 1 

of  his  bisliopric,  that  he  purchased  from  Rome,  to  our 
sovereign  lonl  the  king's  council  till  long  after  the  time 
he  had  delivered  and  exhibited  the  hulls  of  liis  monastery 
to  them. 

25.  Item,  that  the  said  abbot  hath  detained  and  yet 
doth  detain  servants'  wages;  and  often  when  the  said 
servants  hath  asked  their  wages,  the  said  abbot  hath  put 
them  into  the  stocks,  and  beat  them. 

26.  Item,  the  said  abbot,  in  times  past,  hath  had  a 
great  devotion  to  ride  to  Llangarvan,  in  Wales,  upon 
l.ammas-day,  to  receive  pardon  there  ;  and  on  the  even 
he  would  visit  one  Mary  Hawle,  an  old  acquaintance 
of  his,  at  the  Welsh  Poole,  and  on  the  morrow  ride  to 
the  foresaid  Llangarvan,  to  be  confessed  and  absolved, 
and  the  same  night  return  to  company  with  the  said 
Mary  Hawle,  at  the  Welsh  Poole  aforesaid,  and  Kateryn, 
the  said  Mary  Hawle  her  first  daughter,  whom  the  said 
abbot  long  hath  kept  to  concubine,  and  had  children  by 
her,  that  he  lately  married  at  Ludlow.  And  [there  be] 
others  that  have  been  taken  out  of  his  chamber  and  put 
in  the  stocks  within  the  said  abbey,  and  others  that  have 
complained  upon  him  to  the  king's  council  of  the 
Marches  of  Wales  ;  and  the  woman  that  dashed  out  his 
teeth,  that  he  would  have  had  by  violence,  I  will  not 
name  now,  nor  other  men's  wives,  lest  it  would  offend 
your  good  lordship  to  read  or  hear  the  same. 

27.  Item,  the  said  abbot  doth  daily  embezzle,  sell,  and 
convey  the  goods  and  chattels,  and  jewels  of  the  said 
Tnonastery,  having  no  need  so  to  do  ;  for  is  thought  that 
he  hath  a  thousand  marks  or  two  thousand  lying  by  him 
that  he  hath  gotten  by  selling  of  orders,  and  the  jewels 
and  plate  of  the  monastery  and  corradyes  ;  and  it  is  to 
be  feared  that  he  will  alienate  all  the  rest,  unless  your 
good  lordship  speedily  make  redress  and  provision  to 
let  the  same. 

28.  Item,  the  said  abbot  was  accustomed  yearly  to 
preach  at  Lcyntwarded  on  the  P'estival  of  the  Nativity  of 
the  Virgin  Mary,  where  and  when  the  people  were  wont 
to  offer  to  an  image  there,  and  to  the  s.ame  the  said  abbot 
in  his  sermons  would  exhort  them  and  encourage  them. 
But  now  the  oblations  be  decayed,  tlie  abbot,  espying 
the  image  then  to  have  a  cote  of  silver  plate  and  gilt, 
hath  taken  aw.ay  of  his  own  authority  the  said  image,  and 
the  plate  turned  to  his  own  use  ;  and  left  his  preaching 
there,  saying  it  is  no  manner  of  profit  to  any  man,  and 
the  plate  that  was  about  the  said  image  was  named  to  be 
worth  forty  pounds. 

29.  Item,  the  said  .abbot  hath  ever  nourished  enmity 
and  discord  among  his  brethren  ;  and  hath  not  encouraged 
them  to  learn  the  laws  and  the  mystery  of  Christ.  But 
he  that  least  knew  was  most  cherished  by  him  ;  and  he 
hath  been  highly  displeased  and  [hath]  disdained  when 
his  brothers  would  say  that 'it  is  God's  inecept  and 
doctrine  tliat  ye  ought  to  prefer  before  your  ceremonies 


172 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


ami  vain  constitutions.'  This  saying  was  liigh  disobedient, 
and  should  be  grievously  punished;  when  that  lying, 
obloquy,  flattery,  ignorance,  derision,  contumely,  discord, 
great  swearing,  drinking,  hvpocrisv,  fraud,  superstition, 
tleceit,  conspiracy  to  wrong  their  neighbor,  and  other  of 
that  kind,  was  had  in  special  favor  and  regard.  Laud 
and  praise  be  to  God  that  hath  sent  us  the  true  knowl- 
edge. Honor  and  long  ]5rosperity  to  our  sovereign  lord 
and  his  noble  council,  that  teaches  to  advance  the  same. 
Amen. 

15y  John  Lee,  your  faithful  bedeman,  and  canon  of  the 
said  monastery  of  Wigmore. 

Postscript. — My  good  lord,  there  is  in  the  said  abbey 
a  cross  of  fine  gold  and  precious  stones,  whereof  one 
diamond  was  esteemed  by  Doctor  Booth,  Bishop  of 
Hereford,  worth  a  hundred  marks.  In  that  cross  is  en- 
closed a  piece  of  wood,  named  to  be  of  the  cross  that 
Christ  died  upon,  and  to  tlie  same  hath  been  offering. 
And  when  it  should  be  brought  down  to  the  church  from 
the  treasury,  it  was  brought  down  with  lights,  and  like 
reverence  as  should  have  been  done  to  Christ  Himself. 
I  fear  lest  the  abbot  upon  Sunday  next,  when  he  may 
enter  the  treasury,  will  take  away  the  said  cross  and 
break  it,  or  turn  to  his  own  use,  with  many  other  pre- 
cious jewels  that  be  there. 

All  these  articles  afore  written  be  true  as  to  the  sub- 
stance and  true  meaning  of  them,  though  peradventure 
for  haste  and  lack  of  counsel,  some  words  be  set  amiss 
or  out  of  their  place.  That  I  will  be  ready  to  prove 
forasmuch  as  lies  in  me,  when  it  shall  like  your  honor- 
able lordship  to  direct  your  commission  to  men  (or  any 
man)  that  will  be  indifferent  and  not  corrupt  to  sit  upon 
tlie  same,  at  the  said  abbey,  where  the  witnesses  and 
l^roofs  be  most  ready  and  the  truth  is  best  known,  or 
at  any  other  jjlace  where  it  shall  be  thought  most  con- 
venient by  your  high  discretion  and  authority. 

The  statutes  of  Provisors,  commonly  called 
Praemunire  statutes,  which  forbade  all  pur- 
chases of  bulls  from  Rome  under  penalty  of 
outlawry,  have  been  usually  considered  in  the 
highest  degree  oppressive  ;  and  more  particu- 
larly the  pul.)lic  censure  has  fallen  upon  the 
last  application  of  those  statutes,  when  on 
Wolsey's  fall,  the  whole  body  of  the  clergy 
were  laid  under  a  prcemunire,  and  only  obtained 
pardon  on  payment  of  a  serious  fine.  Let  no 
one  regret  that  he  has  learnt  to  be  tolerant  to 
Roman  Catholics  as  the  nineteenth  century 
knows  them.    But  it  is  a  spurious  charity  which, 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES.    173 

to  remedy  a  modern  injustice,  hastens  to  its 
opposite ;  and  when  philosophic  historians  in- 
dulge in  loose  invective  against  the  statesmen 
of  the  Reformation,  they  show  themselves  unfit 
to  be  trusted  with  the  custody  of  our  national 
annals.  The  Acts  of  Parliament  speak  plainly 
of  the  enormous  abuses  which  had  grown  up 
under  these  bulls.  Yet  even  the  emphatic 
language  of  the  statutes  scarcely  prepares  us 
to  find  an  abbot  able  to  purchase  with  jewels 
stolen  from  his  own  convent  a  faculty  to  confer 
holy  orders,  though  there  is  no  evidence  that 
he  had  been  consecrated  bishop,  and  to  make 
a  thousand  pounds  by  selling  the  exercise  of 
his  privileges.  This  is  the  most  flagrant  case 
which  has  fallen  under  the  eyes  of  the  present 
writer.  Yet  it  is  but  a  choice  specimen  out  of 
many.  He  was  taught  to  believe,  like  other 
modern  students  of  history,  that  the  papal  dis- 
pensations for  immorality,  of  which  we  read 
in  Foxe  and  other  Protestant  writers,  were 
calumnies,  but  he  has  been  forced  against  his 
will  to  perceive  that  the  supposed  calumnies 
were  but  the  plain  truth ;  he  has  found  among 
the  records — for  one  thing,  a  list  of  more  than 
twenty  clergy  in  one  diocese  who  had  obtained 
licences  to  keep  concubines.*  After  some  ex- 
perience, he  advises  all  persons  who  are  anxious 
to  understand  the  English  Reformation  to  place 
implicit  confidence  in  the  Statute  Book.  Every 
fresh  record  which  is  brought  to  light  is  a 
fresh  evidence  in  its  favor.  In  the  fluctua- 
tions of  the  conflict  there  were  parliaments,  as 
there  were  princes,  of  opposing  sentiments ; 
and  measures  were  passed,  amended,  repealed, 
or  censured,  as  Protestants  and  Catholics  came 
alternately  into  power.  But  whatever  were  the 
differences  of  opinion,  the  facts  on  either  side 
which  are  stated  in  an  Act  of  Parliament  may 
be  uniformly  trusted.  Even  in  the  attainders 
for  treason  and  heresy  we  admire  the  truthful- 
ness of  the  details  of  the  indictments  although 
*  Tanner  MS.  105,  Bodleian  Library,  Oxford. 


174 


JTISTOKJCAL  ESS  A  VS. 


we  deplore  ihe  prejudice  which  at  times  could 
make  a  crime  of  virtue. 

We  pass  on  to  the  next  picture.  Equal  jus- 
tice, or  some  attempt  at  it,  was  promised,  and 
we  shall  perhaps  part  from  the  friends  of  the 
monasteries  on  better  terms  than  they  believe. 
At  least,  we  shall  add  to  our  own  history  and 
to  the  Catholic  martyrology  a  story  of  genuine 
interest. 

We  have  manv  accounts  of  the  abbeys  at  the 
time  of  their  actual  dissolution.  The  resistance 
or  acquiescence  of  superiors,  the  dismissals  of 
the  brethren,  the  sale  of  the  property,  the  dis- 
truclion  of  relics,  etc.,  are  all  described.  We 
know  how  the  windows  were  taken  out,  how 
the  glass  appropriated,  how  the  '  melter '  ac- 
companied the  visitors  to  run  the  lead  upon 
the  roofs,  and  the  metal  of  the  bells,  into  por- 
table forms.  We  see  the  pensioned  regulars 
filing  out  reluctantly,  or  exulting  in  their  de- 
liverance, discharged  from  their  vows,  furnished 
each  with  his  *  secular  apparel,'  and  his  purse 
of  money,  to  begin  the  world  as  he  might. 
These  scenes  have  long  been  partially  known, 
and  they  were  rarely  attended  with  anything 
remarkable.  At  the  time  of  the  suppression, 
the  discipline  of  several  years  had  broken 
down  opposition,  and  prepared  the  way  for  the 
catastrophe.  The  end  came  at  last,  but  as  an 
issue  which  had  been  long  foreseen. 

We  have  sought  in  vain,  however,  for  a 
glimpse  into  the  interior  of  the  houses  at  the 
first  intimation  of  what  was  coming — more  es- 
pecially when  the  great  blow  was  struck  which 
severed  England  from  obedience  to  Kome,  and 
asserted  tli*  independence  of  the  Anglican 
Church.  Then,  virtually,  the  fate  of  the  mon- 
asteries was  decided.  As  soon  as  the  suprem- 
acy was  vested  in  the  Crown,  inquiry  into  their 
condition  could  no  longer  be  escaped  or  de- 
laved  :  and  then,  throuirh  the  lencrth  and 
breadth  of  the  country,  there  must  have  been 
rare  dismay.     The  account  of  the  London  Car- 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES. 


175 


thusians  is  indeed  known  to  us,  because  they 
chose  to  die  rather  than  yield  submission 
where  their  consciences  forbade  them  ;  and  their 
insohited  heroism  lias  served  to  distinguish 
their  memories.  The  Pope,  as  head  of  the 
Universal  Church,  claimed  the  power  of  ab- 
solving subjects  from  their  allegiance  to  their 
king.  He  deposed  Henry.  He  called  on  for- 
eign princes  to  enforce  his  sentence ;  and,  on 
pain  of  excommunication,  commanded  the 
native  English  to  rise  in  rebellion.  The  king, 
in  self-defence,  was  compelled  to  require  his 
subjects  to  disclaim  all  sympathy  with  these 
pretensions,  and  to  recognize  no  higher  author- 
ity, spirtual  or  secular,  than  himself  within  his 
own  dominions.  The  regular  clergy  throughout 
the  country  were  on  the  Pope's  side,  secretly 
or  openly.  The  Charter-house  monks,  how- 
ever, alone  of  all  the  order,  had  the  courage  to 
declare  their  convictions,  and  to  suffer  for  them. 
Of  the  rest,  we  only  perceive  that  they  at  last 
submitted  ;  and  since  there  was  no  uncertainty 
as  to  their  real  feelings,  we  have  been  disposed 
to  judge  them  liardly  as  cowards.  Yet  we  who 
have  never  been  tried,  should  perhaps  be  cau- 
tious in  our  censures.  It  is  possible  to  hold  an 
opinion  quite  honestly,  and  yet  to  hesitate 
about  dying  for  it.  We  consider  ourselves,  at 
the  present  day,  persuaded  honestly  of  many 
things ;  yet  which  of  them  should  we  refuse  to 
relinquish  if  the  scaffold  were  the  alternative — ^ 
or  at  least  seemed  to  relinquish,  under  silent 
protest } 

And  yet,  in  the  details  of  the  struggle  at  the 
Charter-house,  we  see  the  forms  of  mental  trial 
which  must  have  repeated  themselves  among 
all  bodies  of  the  clergy  wherever  there  was  ser- 
iousness of  conviction.  If  the  majority  of  the 
monks  were  vicious  and  sensual,  there  was  still 
a  large  minority  laboring  to  be  true  to  their 
vows  ;  and  when  one  entire  convent  was  cap- 
able of  sustained  resistance,  there  must  have 
been  many  where  there:  was  only  just  too  little 


1 76  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

virtue  for  the  emergency — where  the  conflict 
between  interest  and  conscience  was  equally 
genuine,  though  it  ended  the  oilier  way. 
Scenes  of  bitter  misery  there  must  have  been — 
of  passionate  emotion  wrestling  ineffectually 
with  the  iron  resolution  of  the  Government  : 
and  the  faults  of  the  Catholic  party  weigh  so 
heavily  against  them  in  the  course  and  prog- 
ress of  the  Reformation,  that  we  cannot  will- 
ingly lose  the  few  countervailing  tints  which 
soften  the  darkness  of  their  conditions. 

Nevertheless,  for  any  authentic  account  of 
the  abbeys  at  this  crisis,  we  have  hitherto  been 
left  to  our  imagination.  A  stern  and  busv  ad- 
ministration  had  little  leisure  to  preserve 
records  of  sentimental  struggles  which  led  to 
nothing.  The  Catholics  did  not  care  to  keep 
alive  the  recollection  of  a  conflict  in  which, 
even  though  with  difiicuky,  the  Church  was 
defeated.  A  rare  accident  only  could  have 
brought  down  to  us  any  fragment  of  a  transac- 
tion which  no  one  had  an  interest  in  remem- 
bering. ^That  such  an  accident  has  really 
occurred,  we  may  consider  as  unusally  fortu- 
nate. The  story  in  question  concerns  the 
abbey  of  Woburn,  and  is  as  follows  : — 

At  Woburn,  as  in  many  other  religious 
houses,  there  were  representatives  of  both  the 
factions'which;  divided  the  country;  perhaps 
we  should  say  of  three — the  sincere  Catholics, 
the  Indifferentjsts,  and  the  Protestants.  These 
last,  so  long  as  Wolsey  was  in  power,  had  been 
frightened  into  silence,  and  with  difliculty  had 
been  able  to  save  themselves  from  extreme 
penalties.  No  sooner,  however,  had  Wolsey 
fallen,  and  the  battle  commenced  with  the 
Papacy,  than  the  tables  turned,  the  persecuted 
became  persecutors — or  at  least  threw  off 
their  disguise — and  were  strengthened  with  the 
support  of  the  large  class  who  cared  only  of 
keep  on  the  winning  side.  The  mysteries  of 
the  faith  came  *  to  be  '  disputed  at  the  public 
tables  ;  the    refectories    lang  with  polemics  ; 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES. 


177 


the  sacred  silence  of  the  dormitories  was  broken 
for  the  lust  lime  by  lawless  speculation.  The 
orthodox  might  have  appealed  to  the  Govern- 
ment:  heresy  was  still  forbidden  by  law,  and, 
if  detected,  was  still  punished  by  the  stake. 
Jjut  the  orthodox  among  the  regular  clergy 
adhered  to  the  Pope  as  well  as  to  the  faith,  and 
abhorred  the  sacrilege  of  the  Parliament  as 
deeply  as  the  new  opinions  of  the  Reformers. 
Instead  of  calling  in  the  help  of  the  law,  they 
muttered  treason  in  secret ;  and  the  Reformers, 
confident  in  the  necessities  of  the  times,  sent 
reports  to  London  of  their  arguments  and  con- 
versations. The  authorities  in  the  abbey  were 
accused  of  disaffection  ;  and  a  commission  of 
inquiry  was  sent  down  towards  the  end  of  the 
spring  of  1536,  to  investigate.  The  deposi- 
tions taken  on  this  occasion  are  still  preserved  ; 
and  with  the  help  of  them,  we  can  leap  over 
three  centuries  of  time,  and  hear  the  last  echoes 
of  the  old  monastic  life  in  Woburn  Abbey 
dying  away  in  discord. 

Where  party  feeling  was  running  so  high, 
there  were,  of  course,  passionate  arguments. 
The  Act  of  Supremacy,  the  spread  of  Protes- 
tantism, the  power  of  the  Pope,  the  state  of 
England — all  were  discussed  ;  and  the  possibil- 
ities of  the  future,  as  each  party  painted  it  in 
the  colors  of  his  hojies.  The  brethren,  we  find, 
spoke  their  mrnds  in  plain  language,  some- 
times condescending  to  a  joke. 

Brother  Sherbourne  deposes  that  the  sub- 
prior,  '  on  Candlemas-day  last  past  (February 
2,  1536),  asked  him  whether  he  longed  not  to 
be  at  Rome  where  all  his  bulls  were  ?'  Brother 
Sherbourne  answered  that  '  his  bulls  had  made 
so  many  calves,  that  he  had  burned  them. 
Whereunto  the  sub-prior  said  he  thought  there 
were  more  calves  now  than  there  were  then.' 

Then  there  were  long  and  furious  c|uarrels 
about  '  my  Lord  Privy  Seal'  (Cromwell) — who 
was  to  one  party,  the  incarnation  of  Satan  ;  to 
the  other,  the  delivering  angel. 


178 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


Nor  did  matters  mend  when  from  the  minis 
ter  they  passed  to  the  master. 

Dan  John  Croxton  being  in  '  the  shaving- 
house  '  one  day  with  certain  of  the  brethren 
having  their  tonsures  looked  to,  and  gossiping 
as  men  do  on  sucli  occasions,  one  '  Friar  Law- 
rence did  say  that  the  king  was  dead.'  Then 
said  Croxton,  '  Thanks  be  to  God,  his  Grace  is 
in  good  health,  and  I  pray  God  so  continue 
him  ; '  and  said  further  to  the  said  Lawrence, 
'  I  advise  thee  to  leave  thy  babbling.'  Croxton 
it  seems,  had  been  among  the  suspected  in 
earlier  times.  Lawrence  said  to  him,  '  Croxton, 
it  maketh  no  matter  what  thou  sayest,  for  thou 
art  one  of  the  new  world  ; '  whereupon  hotter 
still  the  conversation  proceeded.  '  Thy  bab- 
bling tongue,'  Croxton  said,  '  will  turn  us  all  to 
displeasure  at  length.'  '  Then,  quoth  Lawrence, 
'  neither  thou  nor  yet  any  of  us  all  shall  do 
well  as  long  as  we  forsake  our  head  of  the 
Church,  the  Pope.'  '  By  the  mass  !  '  quoth 
Croxton,  '  I  would  thy  Pope  Roger  were  in  thy 
belly,  or  thou  in  his,  for  thou  art  a  false  perjur- 
ed knave  to  thy  prince.'  Whereunto  the  said 
Lawrence  answered,  saying,  '  By  the  mass, 
thou  liest !  I  was  never  sworn  to  forsake  the 
Pope  to  be  our  head,  and  never  will  be.'  '  Then,' 
quoth  Croxton,  '  thou  shalt  be  sworn  spite  of 
thine  heart  one  day,  or  I  will  know  why  nay.' 

These  and  similar  wranglings  may  be  taken 
as  specimens  of  the  daily  conversation  at 
Woburn,  and  we  can  perceive  how  an  abbot 
with  the  best  intentions  would  have  found  it 
difficult  to  keep  the  peace.  There  are  instances 
of  superiors  in  other  houses  throwing  down 
their  command  in  the  midst  of  the  crisis  in  flat 
despair,  protesting  that  their  subject  brethren 
were  no  longer  governable.  Abbots  who  were 
inclined  to  the  Reformation  could  not  manage 
the  Catholics ;  Catholic  abbots  could  not 
manage  the  Protestants ;  indifferent  abbots 
could  not  manage  cither  the  one  or  the  other. 
It  would    have    been    well    for    the    Abbot    of 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES. 


179 


Wobiirn — or  well  as  far  as  this  world  is  concern- 
ed— if  he,  like  one  of  these,  had  acknowledged 
his  incapacity,  and  had  fled  from  his  charge. 

His  name  was  Robert  Hobbes.  Of  his  age 
and  family,  history  is  silent.  We  know  only 
that  he  held  his  place  when  the  storm  rose 
against  the  Pope  ;  that,  like  the  rest  of  the 
clergy,  he  bent  before  the  blast,  taking  the 
oath  to  the  king,  and  submitting  to  the  royal 
supremacy,  but  swearing  under  protest,  as  the 
phrase  went,  with  the  outward,  and  not  with  the 
inward  man — in  fact,  perjuring  himself.  Though 
infirm,  so  far,  however,  he  was  too  honest  to  be 
a  successful  counterfeit,  and  from  the  jealous 
eyes  of  the  Neologians  of  the  abbey  he  could 
not  conceal  his  tendencies^  We  have  signifi- 
cant evidence  of  the  espionage  which  was  es- 
tablished over  all  suspected  quarters,  in  the 
conversations  and  trifling  details  of  conduct  on 
the  part  of  the  Abbot,  which  were  reported  to 
the  Government. 

In  the  summer  of  1534,  orders  come  that  the 
Pope's  name  should  be  rased  out  wherever  it 
was  mentioned  in  the  ma.ss  books.  A  malcon- 
tent, by  name  Robert  Salford,  deposed  that '  he 
was  singing  mass  before  the  Abbot  at  St 
Thomas's  altar  within  the  monastery,  at  which 
time  he  rased  out  with  his  knife  the  said  name 
out  of  the  canon.'  The  Abbot  told  him  to  '  take 
a  pen  and  strike  or  cross  him  out,'  The  saucy 
monk  said  those  were  not  the  orders^  They  were 
to  rase  him  out.  '  Well,  well,'  the  Abbot  said, '  it 
will  come  again  one  day.'  '  Come  again  will  it  ? ' 
was  the  answer ;  '  if  it  do,  then  we  will  put  him 
in  again  ;  but  I  trust  I  shall  never  see  that 
day."'  The  mild  Abbot  could  remonstrate,  but 
could  not  any  more  command ;  and  the  proofs 
of  his  malignant  inclinations  were  remembered 
ajrainst  him  for  the  ear  of  Cromwell. 

In  the  general  injunctions,  too,  he  was  di- 
rected to  preach  against  the  Pope,  and  to  ex- 
pose his  usurpation  ;  but  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  obey.     He  shrank  from  the  pulpit ; 


l8o  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

he  preached  but  twice  after  the  visitation,  and 
then  on  other  subjects,  while  in  the  prayer  be- 
fore the  sermon  he  refused,  as  we  find,  to  use 
the  prescribed  form.  He  only  said,  '  You  shall 
pray  for  the  spirituality,  the  temporality,  and 
the  souls  that  be  in  the  pains  of  purgatory; 
and  did  not  name  the  king  to  be  supreme  head 
of  the  Church  in  neither  of  the  said  sermons, 
nor  speak  against  the  pretended  authority  of 
the  Bishop  of  Rome.' 

Again,  when  Paul  the  Third,  shortly  after 
his  election,  proposed  to  call  a  general  council 
at  Mantua,  against  which,  by  advice  of  Henry 
the  Eighth,  the  Germans  protested,  we  have  a 
glimpse  how  eagerly  anxious  English  eyes  were 
watching  for  a  turning  tide.  '  Hear  you,'  said 
the  Abbot  one  day,  '  of  the  Pope's  holiness 
and  the  congregation  of  bishops,  abbots,  and 
princes  gathered  to  the  council  at  Mantua  ? 
They  be  gathered  for  the  reformation  of  the 
Universal  Church;  and  here  now  we  have  a 
book  of  the  excuse  of  the  Germans,  by  which 
we  may  know  what  heretics  they  be  :  for  if 
they  were  Catholics  and  true  men  as  they  pre- 
tend to  be,  they  would  never  have  refused  to 
come  to  a  genera!  council.' 

So  matters  went  with  the  Abbot  for  some 
months  after  he  had  sworn  obedience  to  the 
king.  Lulling  his  conscience  with  such  opiates 
as  the  casuists  could  provide  for  bim,  he 
watched  anxiously  for  a  change,  and  labored 
with  but  little  reserve  to  hold  his  brethren  to 
their  old  allegiance. 

In  the  summer  of  1535,  however,  a  change 
came  over  the  scene,  very  different  from  the 
outward  reaction  for  which  he  was  looking,and 
a  better  mind  woke  in  the  Abbot :  he  learnt 
that  in  swearing  what  he  did  not  mean  with 
reservations  and  nice  distinctions,  he  had  lied 
to  heaven  and  lied  to  man  :  that  to  save  his 
miserable  life  he  had  perilled  his  soul.  When 
the  Oath  of  Supremacy  was  required  of  the  na- 
tion, Sir  Thomas  More,  Bishop  Eisher,  and  the 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES.     i8i 

monks  of  the  Charter-house — mistaken,  as  we 
believe,  in  judgment,  but  true  to  their  con- 
sciences, and  disdaining  evasion  or  subterfuge 
— chose,  with  deliberate  nobleness,  rather  to 
die  than  to  perjure  themselves.  This  is  no 
place  to  enter  on  the  great  question  of  the 
justice  or  necessity  of  those  executions  ;  but 
the  story  of  the  so-called  martyrdoms  convulsed 
the  Catholic  world.  The  Pope  shook  upon  his 
throne ;  the  shuttle  of  diplomatic  intrigue 
stood  still ;  diplomatists  who  had  lived  so  long 
in  lies  that  the  whole  life  of  man  seemed  but  a 
stage  pageant,  a  thing  of  show  and  tinsel, 
stood  aghast  at  the  revelation  of  English  sin- 
cerity, and  a  shudder  of  great  awe  ran  through 
Europe,  The  fury  of  party  leaves  little  room 
for  generous  emotion,  and  no  pity  was  felt  for 
these  men  by  the  English  Protestants.  The 
Protestants  knew  well  that  if  these  same  suf- 
ferers could  have  had  their  way,  they  would 
themselves  have  been  sacrificed  by  hecatombs  ; 
and  as  they  had  never  experienced  mercy,  so 
they  were  in  turn  without  mercy.  But  to  the 
English  Catholics^  who  believed  as  Fisher  be- 
lieved, but  who  had  not  dared  to  suffer  as 
Fisher  suffered,  his  death  and  the  death  of  the 
rest  acted  as  a  glimpse  of  the  Judgment  Day. 
Their  safety  became  their  shame  and  terror ; 
and  in  the  radiant  example  before  them  of  true 
faithfulness,  they  saw  their  own  falsehood  and 
their  own  disgrace.  So  it  w'as  with  Father  Forest, 
who  had  taught  his  penitents  in  confession  that 
they  might  perjure  themselves,  and  who  now 
sought  a  cruel  death  in  voluntary  expiation  ; 
so  it  was  with  Whiting,  the  Abbot  of  Glaston- 
bury ;  so  with  others  whose  names  should  be 
should  be  more  familiar  to  us  than  they  are  ; 
and  here  in  Woburn  we  are  to  see  the  feeble 
but  genuine  penitence  of  Abbot  Hobbes.  He 
was  still  unequal  to  immediate  martyrdom,  but 
he  did  what  he  knew  might  drag  his  death  upon 
him  if  disclosed   to  the   Government,  and   sur- 


1 8  2  JfIS  TO  RICA  I.  ESS  A  YS. 

rounded  by  spies  he  could  have  had  no  hope 
of  concealment. 

'  At  the  time,'  deposed  Robert  Salford,  'that 
the  monks  of  the  Charter-house,  with  other 
traitors,  did  suffer  death,  the  Abbot  did  call  us 
into  the  Chapter-house,  and  said  these  words  : 
— "  Brethren,  this  is  a  perilous  time  ;  such  a 
scourge  was  never  heard  since  Christ's  pas- 
sion. Ye  hear  how  good  men  suffer  the  death. 
Brethren,  this  is  undoubted  for  our  offences. 
Ye  read,  so  long  as  the  children  of  Israel  kept 
the  commandments  of  God,  so  long  their 
enemies  had  no  power  over  them,  but  God 
took  vengeance  of  their  enemies.  But  when 
they  broke  God's  commandments,  then  they 
were  subdued  by  their  enemies,  and  so  be  we. 
Therefore  let  us  be  sorry  for  our  offences. 
Undoubted  he  will  take  vengeance  of  our 
enemies  ;  I  mean  those  heretics  that  causeth 
so  many  good  men  to  suffer  thus.  Alas,  it  is  a 
piteous  case  that  so  much  Christian  blood 
should  be  shed.  Therefore,  good  brethren, 
for  the  reverence  of  God,  every  one  of  you 
devoutly  pray,  and  say  this  Psalm,  '  O  God, 
the  heathen  are  come  into  thine  inheritance ; 
thy  holy  temple  have  they  defiled,  and  made 
Jerusalem  a  heap  of  stones.  The  dead  bodies 
of  thy  servants  have  they  given  to  be  meat  to 
the  fowls  of  llie  air,  and  the  flesh  of  thy  saints 
unto  the  beasts  of  the  field.  Their  blood  have 
they  shed  like  water  on  every  side  of  Jeru- 
salem, and  there  was  no  man  to  bury  them. 
We  are  become  an  open  scorn  unto  our 
enemies,  a  very  scorn  and  derision  unto  them 
that  are  round  about  us.  Oh,  remember  not 
our  old  sins,  but  have  mercy  upon  us,  and  that 
soon,  for  we  are  come  to  great  misery.  Help 
us,  O  God  of  our  salvation,  for  the  glory  of 
thy  name.  Oh,  be  merciful  unto  our  sins  for 
thy  name's  sake.  Wherefore  do  the  heathen 
say.  Where  is  now  their  God  ? '  Ye  shall  say 
this  Psalm,"  repeated  the  Abbot,  "  every  Fri- 
day, after   the  litany,    prostrate,    when  ye  lie 


DISSOLUTION  OF  MONASTERIES.    183 

upon  the  high  altar,  and  undoubtedly  God  will 
cease  this  extreme  scourge."  And  so,  con- 
tinues Salford,  significantly,  '  the  convent  did 
say  this  aforesaid"  Psalm  until  there  were  cer- 
tain that  did  murmur  at  the  saying  of  it,  and 
so  it  was  left.' 

The  Abbot,  it  seems,  either  stood  alone,  or 
found  but  languid  support :  even  his  own  fam- 
iliar friends  wliom  he  trusted,  those  with  whom 
he  had  walked  in  the  house  of  God,  had  turned 
against  him  ;  the  harsh  air  of  the  dawn  of  a 
new  world  choked  him  :  what  was  there  for  him 
but  to  die  ?  But  his  conscience  still  haunted 
him :  while  he  lived  he  must  fight  on,  and  so, 
if  possible,  find  pardon  for  his  perjury.  The 
blows  in  those  years  fell  upon  the  Church  thick 
and  fast.  In  February,  1536,  the  Bill  passed 
for  the  dissolution  of  the  smaller  monasteries  ; 
and  now  we  find  the  sub-prior  with  the  whole 
fraternity  united  in  hostility,  and  the  Abbot 
without  one  friend  remaining. 

'  He  did  again  call  us  together,'  says  the 
next  deposition,  '  and  lamentably  mourning  for 
the  dissolving  the  said  houses,  he  enjoined  us 
to  sing  '  Salvator  mundi,  salva  nos  omnes," 
every  day  after  lauds  ;  and  we  murmured  at  it 
and  were  not  content  to  sing  it  for  such  cause  ; 
and  so  we  did  omit  it  divers  days,  for  which 
the  Abbot  came  unto  the  Chapter,  and  did  in 
manner  rebuke  us,  and  said  we  were  bound  to 
obey  his  commandment  by  our  profession,  and 
so  did  command  us  to  sing  it  again  with  the 
versicle  "  Let  God  arise,  and  let  His  enemies 
be  scattered.  Let  them  also  that  hate  Him 
flee  before  Him."  Also  he  enjoined  us  at 
every  mass  that  every  priest  did  sing,  to  say 
the  collect,  "  O  God,  who  despisest  not  the 
sighing  of  a  contrite  heart."  And  he  said  if 
we  did  this  with  good  and  true  devotion,  God 
would  so  handle  the  matter,  that  it  should  be 
to  the  comfort  of  all  England,  and  so  show  us 
mercy  as  he  showed  unto  the  children  of  Israel. 
And  surely,  brethren,  there   will  come   to  us  a 


1 8  4  IT  IS  TO  RICA  L  ESS  A  YS. 

good  man  that  will  rectify  these  monasteries 
again  that  be  now  supprest,  because  "  God  can 
of  these  stones  raise  up  children  to  Abraham."  ' 

'  Of  the  stones,'  perhaps,  but  less  easily  of 
the  stony-hearted  monks,  who,  with  pitiless 
smiles,  watched  the  Abbot's  sorrow,  which 
should  soon  bring  him  to  his  ruin. 

Time  passed  on,  and  as  the  world  grew 
worse,  so  the  Abbot  grew  more  lonely.  Deso- 
late and  unsupported,  he  was  still  unable  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  the  course  which  he  knew 
to  be  right ;  but  he  slowly  strengthened  himself 
for  the  trial,  and  as  Lent  came  on  the  season 
brought  with  it  a  more  special  call  to  effort ; 
he  did  not  fail  to  recognize  it.  The  conduct 
of  the  fraternity  sorely  disturbed  him.  They 
preached  against  all  which  he  most  loved  and 
valued,  in  language  purposely  coarse  ;  and  the 
mild  sweetness  of  the  rebukes  which  he  admin- 
istered, showed  plainly  on  which  side  lay,  in 
the  Abbey  of  VVoburn,  the  larger  portion  of  the 
spirit  of  Heaven.  Now  whert  the  passions  of 
those  times  have  died  away,  and  we  can  look 
back  with  more  indifferent  eyes,  how  touching 
is  the  following  scene.  There  was  one  Sir 
William,  curate  of  Woburn  Chapel,  whose 
tongue,  it  seems,  was  rough  beyond  the  rest. 
The  Abbot  met  him  one  day,  and  spoke  to  him. 
'  Sir  William,'  he  said,  '  I  hear  tell  ye  be  a 
great  railer.  I  marvel  that  ye  rail  so.  I  ]5ray 
you  teach  my  cure  the  Scripture  of  God,  and  that 
may  be  to  edification.  I  pray  you  leave  such 
railing.  Ye  call  the  Pope  a  bear  and  a  band- 
dog.  Either  he  is  a  good  man  or  an  ill.  Dom- 
ino siio  stat  ant  cadit.  The  office  of  a  bishop 
is  honorable.  What  edifying  is  this  to  rail  ? 
Let  him  alone.' 

But  they  would  not  let  him  alone,  nor  would 
they  let  the  Abbot  alone,  lie  grew  '  some- 
what acrased,'  they  said  ;  vexed  with  feelings 
of  which  they  had  no  cxi)erience.  He  fell  sick, 
sorrow  and  the  Lent  discipline  weighing  upon 
him.  The  brethren  went  to  see  him  in  his  room  ; 
one  Brother  Dan  Woburn  came  among  the  rest, 


DISSOL UTION  OF  MONASTE RIES.    j  8 5 

and  asked  him  how  he  did  ;  the  Abbot  an- 
swered, '  I  would  that  I  had  died  with  the  good 
man  that  died  for  holding  with  the  Pope.  My 
conscience,  my  conscience  doth  grudge  me 
everyday  for  it.'  Life  was  fast  losing  its  value 
for  him.  What  was  life  to  him  or  any  man 
when  bought  with  a  sin  against  his  soul .''  '  If 
the  Abbot  be  disposed  to  die,  for  that  matter,' 
Brother  Croxton  observed,  '  he  may  die  as  soon 
as  he  will.' 

All  Lent  he  fasted  and  prayed,  and  his 
illness  grew  upon  him  ;  and  at  length  in  Passion 
week  he  thought  all  was  over,  and  that  he  was 
going  away.  On  Passion  Sunday  he  called  the 
brethren  about  him,  and  as  they  stood  round 
his  bed,  with  their  cold  hard  eyes,  '  he  exhorted 
them  all  to  charity,'  he  implored  them  'never 
to  consent  to  go  out  of  their  monastery ;  and  if 
it  chanced  them  'to  be  put  from  it,  they  should 
in  no  wise  forsake  their  habit.'  After  these 
words,  being  in  a  great  agony,  he  rose  out  of 
his  bed,  and  cried  out  and  said,  "  I  would  to 
God,  it  would  please  Him  to  take  me  out  of 
this  wretched  world ;  and  I  would  I  had  died 
with  the  good  men  that  have  suffered  death 
heretofore,  for  they  were  quickly  out  of  their 
pain."  '  *  Then,  half  wandering,  he  began  to 
mutter  to  himself  aloud  the  thoughts  which  had 
been  working  in  him  in  his  struggles ;  and 
quoting  St.  Bernard's  words  about  the  Pope, 
he  exclaimed,  '  Tu  quis  es  primatu  Abel,  guber- 
natione  Noah,  auctoritate  Moses,  judicatu 
Samuel,  potestate  Petrus,  unctione  Christus. 
Aliae  ecclesiai  habent  super  se  pastores.  Tu 
pastor  pastorum  es.' 

Let  it  be  remembered  that  this  is  no  sen- 
timental fiction  begotten  out  of  the  brain  of 
some  ingenious  novelist,  but  the  record  of  the 
true  words  and  sufferings  of  a  genuine  child  of 
Adam,  laboring  in  a  trial  too  hard  for  him. 

He  prayed  to  die,  and  in  good  time  death 
was  to  come  to  him  ;  but   not,  after  all,  in  the 

*  Meaning,  as  he  afterwards  said,  More  and  Fisher  and 
the  Carthusians. 


i86  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

sick  bed,  with  his  expiation  but  half  com- 
pleted. A  year  before,  he  had  thrown  down 
the  cross  when  it  was  offered  him.  He  was  to 
take  it  acrain — the  very  cross  which  he  had  re- 
fused.  He  recovered.  He  was  brought  before 
the  council  ;  with  what  result,  there  are  no 
means  of  knowing.  To  admit  the  Papal  su- 
premacy when  officially  questioned  was  high 
treason.  Whether  the  Abbot  was  constant, 
and  received  some  conditional  pardon,  or 
whether  his  heart  again  for  the  moment  failed 
him — whichever  he  did,  the  records  are  silent. 
This  only  we  ascertain  of  him  ;  that  he  was 
not  put  to  death  under  the  Statute  of  Suprem- 
acy. But,  two  years  later,  when  the  official 
list  was  presented  to  the  Parliament  of  those 
who  had  suffered  for  their  share  in  '  the  Pil- 
grimage of  Grace,'  among  the  rest  we  find  the 
name  of  Robert  Hobbes,  late  Abbot  of 
Woburn.  To  this  solitary  fact  we  can  add 
nothing.  The  rebellion  was  put  down,  and  in 
the  punishment  of  the  offenders  there  was 
unusual  leniency;  not  more  than  thirty  persons 
were  executed,  although  forty  thousand  had 
been  in  arms.  Those  only  were  selected  who 
had  been  most  signally  implicated.  But  they 
were  all  leaders  in  the  movement  ;  the  men  of 
highest  rank,  and  therefore  greatest  guilt. 
They  died  for  what  they  believed  their  duty  ; 
and  the  king  and  council  did  their  duty  in  en- 
forcing the  laws  against  armed  insurgents.  He 
for  whose  cause  each  supposed  themselves  to 
be  contending,  has  long  since  judged  between 
them  ;  and  both  parties  perhaps  now  see  all 
things  with  clearer  eyes  than  was  permitted  to 
them  on  earth. 

We  also  can  see  more  distinctly.  We  will 
not  refuse  the  Abbot  Hobbes  a  brief  record 
of  his  trial  and  passion.  And  although  twelve 
generations  of  Russells — all  loyal  to  the  Protest- 
ant ascendancy — have  swept  Woburn  clear  of 
Catholic  associations,  they,  too,  in  these  later 
days,  will  not  regret  to  see  revived  the  authentic 
story  of  its  last  Abbot. 


ENGLAND'S 
FORGOTTEN    WORTHIES-* 


The  Reformation,  the  Antipodes,  the  Amer- 
ican Continent,  the  Planetary  system,  and  the 
infinite  deep  of  the  Heaven,  have  now  become 
common  and  familiar  facts  to  us.  Globes  and 
orreries  are  the  playthings  of  our  school-days  ; 
we  inhale  the  spirit  of  Protestantism  with  our 
earliest  breath  of  consciousness.  It  is  all  but 
impossible  to  throw  back  our  imagination  into 
the  time  when,  as  new  grand  discoveries,  they 
stirred  every  mind  which  they  touched  with 
awe  and  wonder  at  the  revelation  which  God 
had  sent  down  among  mankind.  Vast  spiritual 
and  material  continents  lay  for  the  first  time  dis- 
played, opening  fields  of  thought  and  fields  of 
enterprise  of  which  none  could  conjecture  the 
limit.  Old  routine  was  broken  up.  Men  were 
thrown  back  on  their  own  strength  and  their 
own  power,  unshackled  to  accomplish  whatever 
they  might  dare.  And  although  we  do  not 
speak  of  these  discoveries  as  the  cause  of  that 
enormous  force  of  heart  and  intellect  which 
accompanied  them  (for  they  were  as  much  the 
eflect  as  the  cause, ^  and  one  reacted  on  the 
other),  yet  at  any  rate  they  afforded  scope  and 
room  for  the  play  of  powers  which,  without 
such  scope,  let  them  have  been  as  transcendent 
at  they  would,  must  have  passed  away  un- 
productive and  blighted. 

An  earnest  faith  in  the   supernatural,  an  in- 

•  Wistiniiisiir  Review,   1852. 


i88  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

tensely  real  conviction  of  the  divine  and  devil- 
ish forces  by  which  the  universe  was  guided 
and  misguided,  was  the  inheritance  of  the 
Elizabethan  age  from  Catholic  Christianity. 
The  fiercest  and  most  lawless  men  did  then 
really  and  truly  believe  in  the  actual  personal 
presence  of  God  or  the  devil  in  every  accident, 
or  scene,  or  action.  They  brought  to  the  con- 
templation of  the  new  heaven  and  the  new 
earth  an  imagination  saturated  with  the  spiritual 
convictions  of  the  old  era,  v/hichwere  not  lost, 
but  only  infinitely  expanded.  The  planets, 
whose  vastness  they  now  learnt  to  recognize, 
were,  therefore,  only  the  more  powerful  for 
evil  or  for  good  ;  the  tides  were  the  breathing 
of  Demogorgon  ;  and  the  idolatrous  American 
tribes  were  real  worshippers  of  the  real  devil, 
and  were  assisted  with  the  full  power  of  his 
evil  army. 

It  is  a  form  of  thought  which,  however  in  a 
vague  and  general  way  we  may  continue  to  use 
its  phraseology,  has  become,  in  its  detailed 
application  to  life,  utterly  strange  to  us.  We 
congratulate  ourselves  on  the  enlargement  of 
our  understanding  when  we  read  the  decisions 
of  grave  law  courts  in  cases  of  supjDOsed  witch- 
craft ;  we  smile  complacently  over  Raleigh's 
story  of  the  island  of  the  Amazons,  and  rejoice 
that  we  are  not  such  as  he — entangled  in  the 
cobwebs  of  effete  and  foolish  superstition.  Yet 
the  true  conclusion  is  less  flattering  to  our 
vanitv.  That  Raleigh  and  Bacon  could  believe 
what  they  believed,  and  could  be  what  they 
were  notwithstanding,  is  to  us  a  proof  that  the 
injury  which  such  mistakes  can  inflict  is  un- 
speakably insignificent  ;  "and  arising,  as  those 
mistakes  arose,  from  a  never-failing  sense  of 
the  real  awfulness  and  mystery  of  the  world 
and  of  the  life  of  human  souls  upon  it,  they 
witness  to  the  presence  in  such  minds  of  a 
spirit,  the  loss  of  which  not  the  most  j^crfect 
acquaintance  with  every  law  by  which  the 
whole  creation  moves  can  compensate.      We 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  189 

wonder  at  the  grandeur,  the  moral  majesty  of 
some  of  Shakespeare's  characters,  so  far  be- 
yond what  the  noblest  among  ourselves  can 
imitate,  and  at  first  thought  we  attribute  it  to 
the  genius  of  the  poet,  who  has  outstripped 
nature  in  his  creations.  But  we  are  misunder- 
standing the  power  and  the  meaning  of  poetry 
in  attributing  creativeness  to  it  in  any  such 
sense.  Shakespeare  created,  but  only  as  the 
spirit  of  nature  created  around  him,  working 
in  him  as  it  worked  abroad  in  those  among 
whom  he  lived.  The  men  whom  he  draws 
were  such  men  as  he  saw  and  knew ;  the  words 
they  utter  were  such  as  he  heard  in  the  ordinary 
conversations  in  which  he  joined.  At  the 
Mermaid  with  Raleigh  and  with  Sidney,  and  at 
a  thousand  unnamed  English  firesides,  he  found 
the  living  originals  for  his  Prince  Hals,  his 
Orlandos,  his  Antonios,  his  Portias,  his  Isa- 
bellas. The  closer  personal  acquaintance 
which  we  can  form  with  the  English  of  the  age 
of  Elizabeth,  the  more  we  are  satisfied  that 
Shakespeare's  great  poetry  is  no  more  than  the 
rhythmic  echo  of  the  life  which  it  depicts. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  no  little  interest  that 
we  heard  of  the  formation  of  a  society  which 
was  to  employ  itself,  as  we  understood,  in  re- 
publishing in  accessible  form  some,  if  not  all, 
of  the  invaluable  records  compiled  or  com- 
posed by  Richard  Hakluyt.  Books,  like  every- 
thing else,  have  their  appointed  death-day  : 
the  souls  of  them,  unless  they  be  found  worthy 
of  a  second  birth  in  a  new  body,  perish  with 
the  paper  in  w^hich  they  lived ;  and  the  early 
folio  Hakluyts,  not  from  their  own  want  of 
•merit,  but  from  our  neglect  of  them,  were  ex- 
piring of  old  age.  The  five-volume  quarto  edi- 
tion, published  in  181 1,  so  little  people  then 
cared  for  the  exploits  of  their  ancestors,  con- 
sisted but  of  270  copies.  It  was  intended  for 
no  more  than  for  curious  antiquaries,  or  for  the 
great  libraries,  where  it  could  be  consulted  as 
a  book  of  reference  ;  and  among  a  people,  the 


I Q  o  JIl^"^  TO  RICA  L  ESS  A  YS. 

greater  part  of  whom  had  never  heard  Hakluyt's 
name,  the  editors  are  scarcely  to  be  blamed  if 
it  never  so  much  as  occurred  to  thciii  that  gen- 
eral readers  would  care  to  have  the  book  with- 
in their  reach. 

And  yet  those  five  volumes  may  be  called 
the  Prose  Kpic  of  the  modern  English  nation. 
They  contain  the  heroic  tales  of  the  exploits 
of  the  great  men  in  whom  the  new  era  was  in- 
augurated ;  not  mythic,  like  the  Iliads  and  the 
Eddas,  but  plain  broad  narratives  of  substan- 
tial facts,  which  rival  legend  in  interest,  and 
grandeur..  What  the  old  epics  were  to  the 
royally  or  nobly  born,  this  modern  epic  is  to 
the  common  people.  We  have  no  longer  kings 
or  princes  for  chief  actors,  to  whom  the  heroism 
like  the  dominion  of  the  world  had  in  time 
past  been  confined.  But,  as  it  was  in  the  days 
of  the  Apostles,  when  a  few  poor  fish>ermen  from 
an  obscure  lake  in  Palestine  assumed,  under 
the  Divine  mission,  the  spiritual  authority  over 
mankind,  so,  in  the  days  of  our  own  Elizabeth, 
the  seamen  from  the  banks  of  the  Thames  and 
the  Avon,  the  Plym  and  the  Dart,  self-taught 
and  self-directed,  with  no  impulse  but  what 
was  beating  in  their  own  royal  hearts,  went 
out  across  the  unknown  seas  fighting,  discov- 
ering, colonizing,  and  graved  out  the  channels, 
paving  them  at  last  with  their  bones,  through 
which  the  commerce  and  enterprise  of  England 
has  flowed  out  over  all  the  world.  We  can 
conceive  nothing,  not  the  songs  of  Homer  him- 
self, which  would  be  read  among  us  with  more 
enthusiastic  interest  than  these  plain  massive 
tales ;  and  a  people's  edition  of  them  in  these 
days,  VThen  the  writings  of  Ainsworth  and  F>u- 
g^ne  Sue  circulate  in  tens  of  thousands,  would 
perhaps  be  the  most  blessed  antidote  which 
could  be  bestowed  upon  us.  The  heroes  them- 
selves were  the  men  of  the  people — the  Joneses, 
the  Smiths,  the  Davises,  the  Drakes  ;  and  no 
courtly  pen,  with  the  one  exception  of  Raleigh, 
lent  its  polish  or  its  varnish  to  set  them  off.  In 


FORGOrTEN  WOkTHIES.  iqi 

most  cases  the  captain  himself,  or  his  clerk  or 
servant,  or  some  unknown  gentleman  volun- 
teer, sat  down  and  chronicled  the  voj'age 
which  he  had  sharctl  ;  and  thus  inorganically 
arose  a  collection  of  writings  which,  with  all 
their  simplicity,  are  for  nothing  more  striking 
than  for  the  high  moral  beauty,  warmed  with 
natural  feeling,  which  displays  itself  through 
all  their  pages.  With  us,  the  sailor  is  scarcely 
himself  .beyond  his  quarter-deck.  If  he  is  dis- 
tinguished in  his  profession,  he  is  professional 
merely  ;  or  if  he  is  more  than  that,  he  owes  it 
not  to  his  work  as  a  sailor,  but  to  independent 
domestic  culture.  With  them,  their  profession 
was  the  school  of  their  nature,  a  high  moral  ed- 
ucation which  most  brought  out  what  was  most 
nobly  human  in  them;  and  the  wonders  of 
earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  sky,  were  a  real  in- 
telligible language  in  which  they  heard  Al- 
mighty God  speaking  to  them. 

That  such  hopes  of  what  might  be  accom- 
plished by  the  Hakluyt  Society  should  in  some 
measure  be  disappointed,  is  only  what  might 
naturally  be  anticipated  of  all  very  sanguine  ex^ 
pectation.  Cheap  editions  are  expensive  editions 
to  the  publisher  ;  and  historical  societies,  from 
a  necessity  which  appears  to  encumber  all  cor- 
porate English  action,  rarely  fail  to  do  their 
work  expensively  and  infelicitously.  Yet,  af- 
ter all  allowances  and  deductions,  we  cannot 
reconcile  ourselves  to  the  mortification  of  hav- 
ing found  but  one  volume  in  the  series  to  be 
even  tolerable  edited,  and  that  one  to  be  edited 
bv  a  gentleman  to  whom  England  is  but  an 
adopted  country — Sir  Robert  Schomburgk. 
Raleigh's  '  Conquest  of  Guiana,'  with  Sir 
Robert's  sketch  of  Raleigh's  history  and  char- 
acter, form  in  everything  but  its  cost  a  very 
model  of  an  excellent  volume.  For  the  remain- 
ing editors,*  we  are  obliged  to  say  that  they 
have  exerted  themselves  successfully  to  para- 

*This  essay  was  written  15  years  ago. 


192 


HISrORICAL  ESSA  YS. 


lyze  whatever  interest  was  reviving  in  Hakluyt, 
and  to  consign  their  own  volumes  to  the  same 
obscurity  to  which  time  and  accident  were  con- 
signing the  earlier  editions.  Very  little  which 
was  really  noteworthy  escaped  the  industry  of 
Hakluyt  himself,  and  we  looked  to  find  reprints 
of  the  most  remarkable  of  the  stories  which  were 
to  be  found  in  his  collection.  The  editors  be- 
gan unfortunately  with  proposing  to  continue 
the  work  where  he  had  left  it,  and  to  produce 
narratives  hitherto  unpublished  of  other  voy- 
ages of  inferior  interest,  or  not  of  English  ori- 
gin. Better  thoughts  appear  to  have  occurred 
to  them  in  the  course  of  the  work  ;  but  their 
evil  destiny  overtook  them  before  their  thoughts 
could  get  themselves  executed.  We  opened 
one  volume  with  eagerness,  bearing  the  title  of 
'  Voyage  to  the  Northwest,'  in  hope  of  finding 
our  old  friends  Davis  and  P>obisher.  We 
found  avast  unnecessary  Editor's  Preface  :  and 
instead  of  the  voyages  themselves,  which  with 
their  picturesqueness  and  moral  beauty  shine 
among  the  fairest  jewels  in  the  diamond  mine 
of  Hakluyt,  we  encountered  an  analysis  and 
digest  of  their  results,  which  Milton  was  called 
in  to  justify  in  an  inappropriate  quotation.  It 
is  much  as  if  they  had  undertaken  to  edit  '  Ba- 
con's Essays,'  and  had  retailed  what  they  con- 
ceived to  be  the  substance  of  them  in  their  own 
language  ;  strangely  failing  to  see  that  the  real 
value  of  the  actions  or  the  thoughts  of  remark- 
able men  does  not  lie  in  the  material  result 
which  can  be  gathered  from  them,  but  in  the 
heart  and  soul  of  the  actors  or  speakers  them- 
selves. Consider  what  Homer's  'Odyssey' 
would  be,  reduced  into  an  analysis. 

The  editor  of  the  *  Letters  of  Columbus ' 
apologizes  for  the  rudeness  of  the  old  seaman's 
phraseology.  Columbus,  he  tells  us,  was  not 
so  great  a  master  of  the  pen  as  of  the  art  of 
navigation.  We  are  to  make  excuses  for  him. 
We  are  put  on  our  guard,  and  warned  not  to 
be  offended,  before  we  are  introduced  to  the 


FORGOTTEN  IVORTJUES.  jg^ 

sublime  record  of  sufferings  under  which  a  man 
of  the  highest  order  was  staggering  towards 
the  end  of  his  earthly  calamities  ;  although  the 
inarticulate  fragments  in  which  his  thouizht 
breaks  out  from  him,  are  strokes  of  natural  art 
by  the  side  of  which  literary  pathos  is  poor  and 
meaningless. 

And  even  in  the  subjects  which  they  select 
they  are  pursued  by  the  same  curious  fatality. 
Why  is  Drake  to  be  best  known,  or  to  be  only 
known,  in  his  last  voyage  ?  Why  pass  over 
the  success,  and  endeavor  to  immortalize  the 
failure  ?  When  Drake  climbed  the  tree  in 
Panama,  and  saw  both  oceans,  and  vowed  that 
he  would  sail  a  ship  in  the  Pacific  ;  when  he 
crawled  out  upon  the  cliffs  of  Terra  del  Fuego, 
and  leaned  his  head  over  the  southernmost 
angle  of  the  world  ;  when  he  scored  a  furrow 
round  the  globe  with  his  keel,  and  received 
the  homage  of  the  barbarians  of  the  antipodes 
in  the  name  of  the  Virgin  Queen,  he  was  an- 
other man  from  what  he  had  become  after 
twenty  years  of  court  life  and  intrigue,  and 
Spanish  fighting  and  gold-hunting.  There'  is 
a  tragic  solemnity  in  his  end,  if  we  take  it  as 
the  last  act  of  his  career ;  but  it  is  his  life,  not 
his  death,  which  we  desire — not  what  he  failed 
to  do,  but  what  he  did. 

But  every  bad  has  a  worse  below  it,  and 
more  offensive  than  all  these  is  the  editor  of 
Hawkins's  '  Voyage  to  the  South  Sea.'  The 
narrative  is  striking  in  itself ;  not  one  of  the 
best,  but  very  good  ;  and,  as  it  is  republished 
complete,  we  can  fortunately  read  it  through, 
carefully  shutting  off  Captain  Bethune's  notes 
with  one  hand,  and  we  shall  then  find  in  it  the 
same  beauty  which  breathes  in  the  tone  of  all 
the  writings  of  the  j^eiiod. 

It  is  a  record  of  misfortune,  but  of  misfor- 
tune which  did  no  dishonor  to  him  who  sunk 
under  it;  and  there  is  a  melancholy  dignity  in 
the  style  in  which  Hawkins  tells  his  story, 
which  seems  to  say,  that  though  he  had  been 


194 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


defeated,  and  had  never  again  an  opportunity 
of  winning  back  his  lost  laurels,  he  respects 
himself  still  for  the  heart  with  which  he  en- 
dured a  shame  which  would  have  broken  a 
smaller  man.  It  would  have  required  no  large 
exertion  of  editorial  self-denial  to  have  ab- 
stained from  marring  the  pages  with  puns  of 
which  '  Punch '  would  be  ashamed,  and  with 
the  vulgar  affectation  of  patronage  with  which 
the  sea  captain  of  the  nineteenth  century  con- 
descends to  criticise  and  approve  of  his  half- 
barbarous  precursor.  And  what  excuse  can 
we  find  for  such  an  offence  as  this  which  fol- 
lows ? — The  war  of  the  Araucan  Indians  is  the 
most  gallant  episode  in  the  history  of  the  New 
World.  The  Spaniards  themselves  were  not 
behind-hand  in  acknowledging  the  chivalry  be- 
fore which  they  quailed,  and  after  many  years 
of  inffectual  efforts,  they  gave  up  a  conflict 
which  they  never  afterwards  resumed  ;  leaving 
the  Araucans  alone,  of  all  the  American  races 
with  which  they  came  in  contact,  a  liberty 
which  they  were  unable  to  tear  from  them.  It 
is  a  subject  for  an  epic  poem  ;  and  whatever 
admiration  is  due  to  the  heroism  of  a  brave 
people  w-hom  no  inequality  of  strength  could 
appal  and  no  defeats  could  crush,  these  poor 
Indians  have  a  right  to  demand  of  us.  The 
story  of  the  war  was  well  known  in  Europe:  Haw- 
kins, in  coasting  the  western  shores  of  South 
America,  fell  i)i  with  them,  and  the  finest  pass- 
age in  his  book  is  the  relation  of  one  of  the  in- 
cidents of  the  war  : — 

An  Indian  captain  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Spani- 
ards, and  for  that  he  was  of  name,  and  known  to  have 
done  his  devoir  against  them,  they  cut  off  his  hands, 
thereby  intending  to  disenal^le  him  to  fight  any  more 
against  tliem.  iJut  he,  returning  home,  desirous  to  re- 
venge this  injury,  to  maintain  his  liberty,  with  the  rcj)- 
utation  of  his  nation,  and  to  liclp  to  banish  the  Spani- 
ard, with  liis  tongue  intrcatcd  and  incited  tliem  to  per- 
severe in  their  accustomed  valor  and  reputation,  abas- 
ing the  enemy  and  advancing  his  nation  ;  condemning 
their  contraries   of   cowardliness,  and  confirming  it  by 


I'OK GOTTEN  IVOR TIIIES. 


»9S 


the  cruelty  used  with  him  ar^d  other  his  companions  in 
their  mishaps;  showing  them  liis  arms  without  hands, 
and  naming  liis  Ijrt-lhren  whose  half  feet  liiey  had  cut 
ol'f,  because  they  might  be  unable  to  sit  on  horseback  ; 
with  force  arguing  that  if  they  feared  them  not,  they 
would  not  have  used  so  great  inhumanity — for  fear  jjro- 
duccth  cruelly,  the  companion  of  cowardice.  Thus  en- 
couraged he  them  to  fight  for  their  lives,  limbs,  and 
liberty,  choosing  rather  to  die  an  honorable  death  fight- 
ing, than  to  live  in  servitude  as  fruitless  members  of  the 
commonwealth.  Thus  using  the  office  of  a  sergeant- 
major,  and  having  loaden  his  two  stumps  with  bundles 
of  arrows,  lie  succored  them  who,  in  the  succeeding 
battle,  had  their  store  wasted;  and  changing  himself 
from  place  to  )ilace,  animated  and  encouraged  his  coun- 
trymen with  such  comfortable  persuasions,  as  it  is  re- 
ported and  credibly  believed,  that  he  did  more  good 
with  his  words  and  presence,  without  striking  a  stroke, 
than  a  great  part  of  the  army  did  with  fighting  to  the 
utmost. 

It  is  an  action  which  may  take  its  place  by 
the  side  of  the  myth  of  Mucins  Screvola,  or  the 
real  exploit  of  that  brother  of  the  poet  ^schy- 
lus,  who,  when  the  Persians  were  fiying  from 
Marathon,  clung  to  a  ship  till  both  his  hands 
were  hewn  away,  and  then  seized  it  with  his 
teeth,  leaving  his  name  as  a  portent  even  in 
the  splendid  calendar  of  Athenian  heroes.  Cai> 
tain  Bethune,  without  call  or  need,  making  his 
notes,  merely,  as  he  tells  us,  from  the  sugges- 
tions of  his  own  mind  as  he  revised  the  proof- 
sheets,  informs  us,  at  the  bottom  of  the  page, 
that  '  it  reminds  him  of  the  familiar  lines — • 

For  Widdrington  I  needs  must  wail, 

As  one  in  doleful  dumps  ; 
For  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off. 

He  fought  upon  his  stumps. 

It  must  not  avail  him,  that  he  has  but  quoted 
from  the  ballad  of  Chevy  Chase.  It  is  the 
most  deformed  stanza* 

*  Here  is  the  old  stanza.     T.ct  whoever  is  disposed  to 
think  us  too  hard  on  Captain  liethune  compare  them: — 

For  Wetharrington  my  harte  was  woe, 
That  even  he  slayne  sholde  be ; 


1 9  6  If  IS  TO  RICA  L  ESS  A  YS. 

of  the  modern  deformed  version  which  was 
composed  in  the  eclipse  of  heart  and  taste,  on 
the  restoration  of  the  Stuarts  ;  and  if  such 
verses  could  then  pass  for  serious  poetry,  they 
have  ceased  to  sound  in  any  ear  as  other  than 
a  burlesque  ;  the  associations  which  they  arouse 
are  only  absurd,  and  they  could  only  have  con- 
tinued to  rinof  in  his  memorv  throujrh  their 
ludicrous  dog^rel. 

When  to  these  ofTences  of  the  Society  we 
add,  that  in  the  long  labored  appendices  and 
introductions,  which  fill  up  valuable  space, 
which  increase  the  expense  of  the  edition,  and 
into  reading  which  many  readers  are,  no  doubt 
betrayed,  we  have  found  nothing  which  assists 
the  understanding  of  the  stories  which  they 
are  supposed  to  illustrate — when  we  have  de- 
clared that  we  have  found  what  is  most  uncom- 
mon passed  without  notice,  and  what  is  most 
trite  and  familiar  encumbered  with  comment — 
we  have  unpacked  our  hearts  of  the  bitterness 
which  these  volumes  have  aroused  in  us,  and 
can  now  take  our  leave  of  them  and  go  on  with 
our  more  grateful  subject. 

Elizabeth,  whose  despotism  was  as  peremp- 
tory as  that  of  the  Plantagenets,  and  whose 
ideas  of  the  English  constitution  were  limited 
in  the  highest  degree,  was,  notwithstanding, 
more  beloved  by  her  subjects  than  any  sover- 
eign before  or  since.  It  was  because,  sub- 
stantially, she  was  the  people's  sovereign ; 
because  it  was  given  to  her  to  conduct  the 
outgrowth  of  the  national  life  through  its  crisis 
of  change,  and  the  weight  of  her  great  mind 
and  her  great  place  were  thrown  on  the  people's 
side.  She  was  able  to  paralyze  the  dying 
efforts  with  which,  if  a  Stuart  had  been  on  the 
throne,  the  representatives  of  an  effete  system 

« 

For  when  both  his  leggis  were  hewen  in  to, 
He  knyled  and  fought  on  his  knee 

Even  Percy,  who,    on   the    whole,    thinks   well    of   the 
modern  ballad,  gives  up  this  stanza  as  hopeless. 


FORGOTTEN   WORTIflES. 


197 


might  have  made  the  struggle  a  deadly  one  ; 
and  the  history  of  England  is  not  the  liistory 
of  France,  because  the  resolution  of  one  person 
held  the  Refurnialioii  firm  till  it  had  rooted 
itself  in  tlie  heart  of  the  nation,  and  could  not 
be  again  overthrown.  The  Catholic  faith  was 
no  longer  able  to  furnish  standing  ground  on 
which  the  English  or  any  other  nation  could 
live  a  manly  and  a  godly  life.  Feudalism,  as  a 
social  organization,  was  not  any  more  a  system 
under  which  their  energies  could  have  scope  to 
move.  Thenceforward,  not  the  Catholic  Church, 
but  any  man  to  whom  God  had  given  a  heart 
to  feel  and  a  voice  to  speak,  was  to  be  the 
teacher  to  whom  men  were  to  listen  ;  and  great 
actions  were  not  to  remain  the  privilege  of  the 
families  of  the  Norman  nobles,  but  were  to  be 
laid  within  the  reach  of  the  poorest  plebeian 
who  had  the  stuff  in  him  to  perform  them. 
Alone,  of  all  the  sovereigns  in  Europe,  Eliza- 
beth saw  the  change  which  had  passed  over  the 
world.  She  saw  it,  and  saw  it  in  faith,  and 
accepted  it.  The  England  of  the  Catholic 
Hierarchy  and  the  Norman  Baron,  was  to  cast 
its  shell  and  to  become  the  England  of  free 
thought  and  commerce  and  manufacture,  which 
was  to  plough  the  ocean  with  its  navies,  and 
sow  its  colonies  over  the  globe  ;  and  the  first 
appearance  of  these  enormous  forces  and  the 
light  of  the  earliest  achievements  of  the  new 
era  shines  through  the  forty  years  of  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth  with  a  grandeur  which,  when  once 
its  history  is  written,  will  be  seen  to  be  among 
the  riiost  sublime  phenomena  v/hich  the  earth 
as  yet  has  witnessed.  The  work  was  not  of 
her  creation  ;  the  heart  of  the  whole  P^nglish 
nation  was  stirred  to  its  depths  ;  and  Elizabeth's 
place  vras  to  recognize,  to  love,  to  foster,  and 
to  guide.  The  Government  originated  nothing; 
at  such  a  time  it  was  neither  necessary  nor 
desirable  that  it  should  do  so ;  but  wherever 
expensive  enterprises  were  on  foot  which  prom- 
ised  ultimate    good,  and    doubtful    immediate 


iq8  historical  essays. 

profit,  we  never  fail  to  find  among  the  lists  of 
contributors  the  Queen's  Majesty,  Burghley, 
Leicester,  Walsinghani.  Never  chary  of  her 
presence,  for  Elizabeth  could  afford  to  con- 
descend, v.'hen  ships  were  fitting  in  the  river 
for  distant  vovages,  the  Queen  would  50  down 
in  her  barge  and  inspect.  Frobisher,  who  was 
but  a  poor  sailor  adventurer,  sees  her  wave  her 
handkerchief  to  him  from  the  Greenwich 
Palace  windows,  and  he  brings  her  home  a 
narwhal's  horn  for  a  present.  She  honored 
her  people,  and  her  people  loved  her ;  and  the 
result  was  that,  with  no  cost  to  the  Government, 
she  saw  them  scattering  the  fleets  of  the  Span- 
iards, planting  America  with  colonies,  and 
exploring  the  most  distant  seas.  Either  for 
honor  or  for  expectation  of  profit,  or  from 
that  unconscious  necessity  by  which  a  great 
people,  like  a  great  man,  will  do  what  is  right, 
and  must  do  it  at  the  right  time,  whoever  had 
the  means  to  furnish  a  ship,  and  whoever  had 
the  talent  to  command  one,  laid  their  abilities 
together  and  went  out  to  pioneer,  and  to  con- 
quer, and  to  take  possession,  in  the  name  of 
the  Queen  of  the  Sea,  There  was  no  nation 
so  remote  but  what  some  one  or  other  was 
found  ready  to  undertake  an  expedition  there, 
in  the  hope  of  opening  a  trade;  and,  let  them 
go  where  they  would,  they  were  sure  of  Eliza- 
beth's countenance.  We  find  letters  written  by 
her,  for  the  benefit  of  nameless  adventurers,  to 
every  poteiitate  of  whom  she  had  ever  heard — 
to  the  Emperors  of  China,  Japan,  and  India, 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Russia,  the  Grand  Turk, 
the  Persian  '  Sofee,'  and  other  unheard-of 
Asiatic  and  African  princes  ;  whatever  was  to 
be  done  in  I'^nHand,  or  bv  Englishmen,  Eliza- 
beth  assisted  when  she  could,  and  admired 
when  she  could  not. 

'I'lie  springs  of  great  actions  are  always 
difficult  to  analyze — impossible  to  analyze  per- 
fectly— possible  to  analyze  only  very  proxi- 
mately; and  the  force  by  which    a  man  throws 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  igg 

a  good  action  out  of  himself  is  invisible  and 
mystical,  like  that  which  brings  out  the  blossom 
and  the  fruit  upon  the  tree.  The  motives 
which  we  find  men  urging  for  their  enterprises 
seem  often  insufficient  to  have  prompted  them 
to  so  large  a  daring.  They  did  what  they  did 
from  the  great  unrest  in  them  which  made  them 
do  it,  and  what  it  was  mav  be  best  measured 
by  the  results  in  the  present  England  and 
America. 

Nevertheless  there  was  enough  in  the  state 
of  the  world,  and  in  the  position  of  P^ngland, 
to  have  furnished  abundance  of  conscious 
motive,  and  to  have  stirred  the  drowsiest  minis- 
ter of  routine. 

Among  material  occasions  for  exertion,  the 
population  began  to  outgrow  the  employment, 
and  there  was  a  necessity  for  plantations  to 
serve  as  an  outlet.  Men  who,  under  happier 
circumstances,  might  have  led  decent  lives,  and 
done  good  service,  were  now  driven  by  want  to 
desperate  courses — '  witness,'  as  Richard  Hak- 
luyt  says,  '  twenty  tall  fellows  hanged  last 
Rochester  assizes  for  small  robberies  ; '  and 
there  is  an  admirable  paper  addressed  to  the 
Privy  Council  by  Christopher  Carlile,  Walsing- 
ham's  son-in-law,  pointing  out  the  possible 
openings  to  be  made  in  or  through  such  planta- 
tions for  home  produce  and  manufacture. 

Far  below  all  such  prudential  economies  and 
mercantile  ambitions,  however,  lay  a  chivalrous 
enthusiasm  which  in  these  dull  days  we  can 
hardly,  without  an  effort,  realize.  The  life- 
and -death  wrestle  between  the  Reformation 
and  the  old  religion  had  settled  in  the  last 
quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century  into  a  perma- 
nent struggle  between  England  and  Spain. 
France  was  disabled.  All  the  help  which 
Elizabeth  could  spare  barely  enabled  the 
Netherlands  to  defend  themselves.  Protestant- 
ism, if  it  conquered,  must  conquer  on  another 
field  ;  and  by  the  circumstances  of  the  time  the 
championship  of  the  Reformed  faith  fell  to  the 


200  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

English  sailors.  The  sword  of  Spain  was  for- 
ged in  the  gold  mines  of  Peru  ;  ilie  legions  of 
Alva  were  only  to  be  disarmed  by  intercepting 
the  gold  ships  on  iheir  passage  ;  and,  inspired 
by  an  enthusiasm  like  that  which  four  centuries 
before  had  precipitated  the  chivalry  of  Europe 
upon  the  I^ast,  the  same  sj^irit  which  in  its 
persent  degeneracy  covers  our  bays  and  rivers 
with  pleasure  yachts,  then  fitted  out  armed 
privateers,  to  sweep  the  Atlantic,  and  plunder 
and  destroy  Spanish  ships  wherever  they  could 
meet  them. 

Thus,  from  a  combination  of  causes,  the 
whole  force  and  energy  of  the  age  was  directed 
towards  the  sea.  The  wide  excitement,  and 
the  greatness  of  the  interests  at  stake,  raised 
even  common  men  above  themselves  ;  and 
people  who  in  ordinary  times  would  have  been 
no  more  than  mere  seamen,  or  mere  money- 
making  merchants,  appear  before  us  with  a 
largeness  and  greatness  of  heart  and  mind 
in  which  their  duties  to  God  and  their  country 
are  alike  clearly  and  broadly  seen  and  felt  to 
be  paramount  to  every  other. 

Ordinary  English  traders  we  find  fighting 
Spanish  war  ships  in  behalf  of  the  Protestant 
faith.  The  cruisers  of  the  Spanish  main  were 
full  of  generous  eagerness  for  the  conversion 
of  the  savage  nations  to  Christianity.  And 
what  is  even  more  surprising,  sites  for  coloniza- 
tion were  examined  and  scrutinized  by  such 
men  in  a  lofty  statesmanlike  spirit,  and  a  ready 
insight  was  displayed  bytbeminto  the  indirect 
effects  of  a  wisely-extended  commerce  on  every 
highest  human  interest. 

Again,  in  the  conflict  with  the  Spaniards, 
there  was  a  further  feeling,  a  feeling  of  genuine 
chivalry,  which  was  spurring  on  the  English, 
and  one  which  must  be  well  understood  and 
well  remembered,  if  men  like  Drake,  and  Haw- 
kins, and  Raleigh  are  to  be  tolcr;ibly  under- 
stood. One  of  the  English  Reviews,  a  short 
time    ago,  was  much   amused   with  a    story  of 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  201 

Drake  having  excommunicated  a  petty  officer 
as  a  punishment  for  some  moral  oifencc  ;  the 
reviewer  not  being  able  to  see  in  Drake,  as  a 
man,  anything  more  than  a  higlily  brave  and 
successful  buccaneer,  whose  pretences  to  relig- 
ion might  rank  with  the  devotion  of  an  Italian 
bandit  to  the  Madonna.  And  so  Hawkins,  and 
even  Raleigh,  are  regarded  by  superficial  per- 
sons, who  see  only  such  outward  circum- 
stances of  their  history  as  correspond  with 
their  own  impressions.  The  high  nature  of 
these  men,  and  the  high  objects  which  they 
pursued,  will  only  rise  out  and  become  visible 
to  us  as  we  can  throw  ourselves  back  into 
their  times  and  teach  our  hearts  to  feel  as  they 
felt.  We  do  not  find  in  the  language  of  the 
voyagers  themselves,  or  of  those  who  lent  them 
their  help  at  home,  any  of  that  weak  watery 
talk  of  '  protection  of  aborigines,'  which,  as 
soon  as  it  is  translated  into  fact,  becomes  the 
most  active  policy  for  their  destruction,  soul 
and  body.  But  the  stories  of  the  dealings  of 
the  Spaniards  with  the  conquered  Indians, 
which  were  widely  known  in  England,  seem  to 
have  affected  all  classes  of  people,  not  with 
.pious  passive  horror,  but  with  a  genuine  human 
indignation.  A  thousand  anecdotes  in  detail 
we  find  scattered  up  and  down  the  pages  of 
of  Hakluyt,  who,  with  a  view  to  make  them 
known,  translated  Peter  Martyr's  letters  ;  and 
each  commonest  sailor -boy  who  had  heard 
these  stories  from  his  childhood  among  the 
the  tales  of  his  father's  fireside,  had  longed  to 
be  a  man,  that  he  might  go  out  and  become 
avenger  of  a  gallant  and  suffering  people.  A 
high  mission,  undertaken  with  a  generous  heart 
seldom  fails  to  make  those  worthy  of  it  to  whom 
it  is  given  ;  and  it  was  a  point  of  honor,  if  of 
nothing  more,  among  the  English  sailors,  to  do 
no  discredit  by  their  conduct  to  llie  greatness 
of  their  cause.  The  high  courtesy,  the  chiv- 
alry of  the  Spanish  nobles,  so  conspicuous  in 
their  dealings  with  their  European  rivals,  either 


2  02  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

failed  to  touch  them  in  their  dealings  with  un- 
cultivated idolaters,  or  the  high  temper  of  the 
aristocracy  was  unable  to  restrain  or  to  influence 
the  masses  of  the  soldiers.  It  would  be  as  ungen- 
erous as  it  would  be  untrue  to  charge  upon  their 
religion  the  grievous  actions  of  men  who  called 
themselves  the  armed  missionaries  of  Catholi- 
cism when  the  Catholi  cpriests  and  bishops  were 
the  loudest  in  the  indignation  with  which  they 
denounced  them.  But  we  are  obliged  to  charge 
upon  it  that  slow  and  subtle  influence  so  inevi- 
tably exercised  by  any  religion  which  is  divorc- 
ed from  life,  and  converted  into  a  thing  of  form, 
or  creed,  or  ceremony,  or  system — which  could 
permit  the  same  men  to  be  extravagant  in 
a  sincere  devotion  to  the  Queen  of  Heaven, 
whose  entire  lower  nature,  unsubdued  and  un- 
affected, was  given  up  to  thirst  of  gold,  and 
plunder,  and  sensuality.  If  religion  does  not 
make  men  more  humane  than  they  would  be 
without  it,  it  makes  them  fatally  less  so  ;  and 
it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  spirit  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  which  had  oscillated  to  the  other 
extreme,  and  had  again  crystallized  into  a 
formal  antinomian  fanaticism,  reproduced  the 
same  fatal  results  as  those  in  which  the  Spani- 
ards had  set  them  their  unworthy  precedent. 
But  the  Elizabethan  navigators,  full  for  the 
most  part  with  large  kindness,  wisdom,  gentle- 
ness, and  beauty,  bear  names  untainted,  as  far 
as  we  know,  with  a  single  crime  against  the 
savages  of  America ;  and  the  name  of  England 
was  as  famous  in  the  Indian  seas  as  that  of 
Spain  was  infamous.  On  the  banks  of  the 
Oronoko  there  was  remembered  for  a  hundred 
years  the  noble  captain  who  had  come  there, 
from  the  great  Queen  beyond  the  seas ;  and 
Raleigh  speaks  the  language  of  the  heart  of  his 
country,  when  he  urges  the  English  statesmen 
to  colonize  Guiana,  and  exults  in  the  glorious 
hope  of  driving  the  white  marauder  into  the 
Pacific,  and  restoring  the  Incas  to  the  throne  of 
Peru. 


FORGOTTEN  IVOKTHIES.  203 

Who  will  not  be  persuaded  (he  says)  that  now  at 
length  the  great  Judge  of  the  world  hath  heard  the  sighs, 
groans,  and  lamentations,  hath  seen  the  tears  and  blood 
of  so  many  millions  of  innocent  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, afHicted,  roblied,  reviled,  branded  with  hot  irons, 
roasted,  dismembered,  mangled,  stabbed,  whipped, 
racked,  scalded  with  hot  oil,  put  to  the  strapado.  ripped 
alive,  beheaded  in  sport,  drowned,  dashed  against  the 
rocks,  famished,  devoured  by  mastiffs,  burned,  and  by 
infinite  cruelties  consumed,  and  purposeth  to  scourge 
and  plague  that  cursed  nation,  and  to  take  the  yoke  of 
servitude  from  that  distressed  people,  as  free  by  nature 
as  any  Christian  ? 

Poor  Raleigh  !  if  peace  and  comfort  in  this 
world  were  of  much  importance  to  him,  it  was 
in  an  ill  day  that  he  provoked  the  revenge  of 
Spain.  The  strength  of  England  was  needed 
at  the  moment  at  its  own  door  ;  the  Armada 
came,  and  there  was  no  means  of  executing 
such  an  enterprise.  And  afterwards  the  throne 
of  Elizabeth  was  filled  by  a  Stuart,  and  Guiana 
was  to  be  no  scene  of  glory  for  Raleigh  ;  rather, 
as  later  historians  are  pleased  to  think,  it  was 
the  grave  of  his  reputation ^ 

But  the  hope  burned  clear  in  hiiri  through 
all  the  weary  3'ears  of  unjust  imprisonment ; 
and  when  he  was  a  gray-headed  old  man,  the 
base  son  of  a  bad  mother  used  it  to  betray 
him.  The  success  of  his  last  enterprise  was 
made  the  condition  under  which  he  was  to  be 
pardoned  for  a  crime  which  he  had  not  comi- 
mitted  ;  and  its  success  depended,  as  he  knew, 
on  its  being  kept  secret  from  the  Spaniards. 
James  required  of  Raleigh  on  his  allegiance  a 
detail  of  what  he  proposed,  giving  him  at  the 
same  time  his  word  as  a  king  that  the  secret 
should  be  safe  with  him.  The  next  day  it  was 
sweeping  out  of  the  port  of  London  in  the 
swiftest  of  the  Spanish  ships,  with  private 
orders  to  the  Governor  of  St  Thomas  to  pro- 
voke a  collision  when  Raleigh  should  arrive 
there,  which  should  afterwards  cost  him  his 
heart's  blood. 

\Vc  luodern  readers  may  run  rapidly  over  the 
series    of   epithets  under   which    Raleigh   has 


204  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

catalogued  the  Indian  sufferings,  hoping  that 
they  are  exaggerated,  seeing  that  they  are  hor- 
rible, and  closing  our  eyes  against  them  with 
swiftest  haste ;  but  it  was  not  so  when  every 
epithet  suggested  a  hundred  familiar  facts ; 
and  some  of  these  (not  resting  on  English  prej- 
udices, but  on  Spanish  evidence,  which  is  too 
full  of  shame  and  sorrow  to  be  suspected)  shall 
be  given  in  this  place,  however  old  a  story  it 
may  be  thought ;  because,  as  we  said  above, 
it  is  impossible  to  understand  the  actions  of 
these  men,  unless  we  are  familiar  with  the  feel- 
ings of  which  their  hearts  were  full. 

The  massacres  under  Cortez  and  Pizarro, 
terrible  as  they  were,-  were  not  the  occasion 
which  stirred  the  deepest  indignation.  They 
had  the  excuse  of  what  might  be  called,  for 
want  of  a  better  word,  necessity,  and  of 
the  desperate  position  of  small  bands  of  men  in 
the  midst  of  enemies  who  might  be  counted  by 
millions.  And  in  De  Soto,  when  he  burnt  his 
guides  in  Florida  (it  was  his  practice,  when 
there  was  danger  of  treachery,  that  those  who 
were  left  alive  might  take  warning)  ;  or  in  Vasco 
Nunnez,  praying  to  the  Virgin  on  the  moun- 
tains of  Darien,  and  going  down  from  off  them 
into  the  valleys  to  hunt  the  Indian  caciques, 
and  fling  them  alive  to  his  bloodhounds  ;  there 
was,  at  least,  with  all  this  fierceness  and  cruel- 
ty, a  desperate  courage  which  we  cannot  re- 
fuse to  admire,  and  which  mingles  with  and 
corrects  our  horror.  It  is  the  refinement  of 
the  Spaniard's  cruelty  in  the  settled  and  con- 
quered provinces,  excused  by  no  danger  and 
provoked  by  no  resistance,  the  details  of  which 
witness  to  the  infernal  coolness  with  which  it 
was  perpetrated  ;  and  the  great  bearing  of  the 
Indians  themselves  under  an  oppression  which 
they  despaired  of  resisting,  raises  the  whole 
history  to  the  rank  of  a  world-wide  tragedy,  in 
which  the  nobler  but  weaker  nature  was 
crushed  under  a  malignant  force  which  was 
stronger    and  yet  meaner  than  itself.      Gold 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  205 

hunting  and  lust  were  the  two  passions  for 
which  the  Spaniards  cared ;  and  the  fate  of 
the  Indian  women  was  only  more  dreadful  than 
that  of  the  men,  who  were  ganged  and  chained 
to  a  labor  in  the  mines  which  was  only  to 
cease  with  their  lives,  in  a  land  where  but  a 
little  before  they  had  lived  a  free  contented 
people,  more  innocent  of  crime  than  perhaps 
any  people  upon  earth.  If  we  can  conceive  what 
our  own  feelings-would  be — if,  in  the  '  develop- 
ment of  the  mammalia,'  some  baser  but  more 
powerful  race  than  man  were  to  appear  upon 
this  planet,  and  we  and  our  wives  and  children 
at  our  own  happy  firesides  were  degraded 
from  our  freedom,  and  became  to  them  what 
the  lower  animals  are  to  us,  we  can  perhaps 
realize  the  feelings  of  the  enslaved  nations  of 
Hispaniola. 

As  a  harsh  justification  of  slavery,  it  is  some- 
times urged  that  men  who  do  not  deserve  to 
be  slaves  will  prefer  death  to  the  endurance  of 
it ;  and  that  if  they  prize  their  liberty,  it  is 
always  in  their  power  to  assert  it  in  the  old 
Roman  fashion.  Tried  even  by  so  hard  a  rule 
the  Indians  vindicated  their  right  ;  and,  before 
the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  entire 
group  of  the  Western  Islands  in  the  hands  of 
the  Spaniards,  containing,  when  Columbus  dis- 
covered them,  many  millions  of  inhabitants, 
were  left  literally  desolate  from  suicide.  Of 
the  anecdotes  of  this  terrible  self-immolation, 
as  they  were  then  known  in  England,  here  are 
a  few  out  of  many. 

The  first  is  simple,  and  a  specimen  of  the 
ordinary  method.  A  Yucatan  cacique,  who 
was  forced  with  his  old  subjects  to  labor  in  the 
mines,  at  last  '  calling  those  miners  into  an 
house,  to  the  number  of  ninety-five,  he  thus 
debateth  with  them  : — 

'  My  worthy  companions  and  friends,  why  desire  we 
to  live  any  longer  under  so  cruel  a  servitude  ?  I,et  us 
now  go  luito  the  perpetual  seat  of  our  ancestors,  for  we 
shall  there  have  rest  from  these  intolerable  cares  and 
grievances  which  '.ve  endure  under  the  subjection  of  the 


jo6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

unthankful.  Go  j'e  before,  I  will  presently  follow  you. 
Having  so  spoken,  he  held  out  whole  handfuls  of 
those  leaves  which  take  away  life,  prepared  for  the  pur- 
pose, and  giving  every  one  part  thereof,  being  kindled 
to  suck  lip  the  fume  ;  who  obeyed  his  command;  the 
king  and  his  chief  kinsmen  reserving  the  last  place  for 
themselves. 

We  speak  of  the  crime  of  suicide,  but  few 
persons  will  see  a  crime  in  this  sad  and  stately 
leave-taking  of  a  life  which  it  was  no  longer 
possible  to  bear  with  unbroken  hearts.  We  do 
not  envy  the  Indian  who  with  Spaniards  before 
him  as  an  evidence  of  the  fruits  which  their 
creed  brought  forth,  deliberately  exchanged 
for  it  the  old  religion  of  his  country,  which 
could  sustain  him  in  an  action  of  such  melan- 
choly grandeur.  But  the  Indians  did  not 
always  reply  to  their  oppressors  with  escaping 
passively  beyond  their  hands.  Here  is  a  story 
with  matter  in  it  for  as  rich  a  tragedy  as  CEdi- 
pus  or  Agamemnon  ;  and  in  its  stern  and  tre- 
mendous features,  more  nearly  resembling  them 
than  any  which  were  conceived  even  by  Shake- 
speare. 

An  officer  named  Orlando  had  taken  the 
daughter  of  a  Cuban  cacique  to  be  his  mis- 
tress. She  was  with  child  by  him,  but  suspect- 
ing her  of  being  engaged  in  some  other  intrigue 
he  had  her  fastened  to  two  wooden  spits,  not 
intending  to  kill  her,  but  to  terrify  her ;  and 
setting  her  before  the  lire,  he  ordered  that  she 
should  be  turned  by  the  servants  of  the 
kitchen. 

The  maiden,  stricken  with  fear  through  the  cruelty 
thereof,  and  strange  kind  of  torment,  presently  gave  up 
the  ghost.  The  cacique,  her  father,  understanding  the 
matter,  took  thirty  of  his  men  and  went  to  the  house  of 
the  captain,  who  was  then  absent,  and  slew  his  wife, 
whom  he  had  married  after  that  wicked  act  committed, 
and  the  women  who  were  companions  of  the  wife,  and 
her  servants  every  one.  Then  shutting  the  door  of  the 
house,  and  putting  fire  under  it,  lie  burnt  himself  and 
all  his  companions  that  assisted  him,  together  with  the 
captain's  dead  family  and  goods. 


FORGO TTEN  IVOR THJES. 


207 


This  is  no  fiction  or  poet's  romance.  It  is  a 
tale  of  wrath  and  revenge,  which  in  sober 
dreadful  truth  enacted  itself  upon  this  earth, 
and  remains  among  the  eternal  records  of  the 
doings  of  mankind  upon  it.  As  some  relief  to 
its  most  terrible  features,  we  follow  it  with  a 
story  which  has  a  touch  in  it  of  diabolical 
humor. 

The  slave-owners  finding  their  slaves  escap- 
ing thus  unprosperously  out  of  their  grasp,  set 
themselves  to  find  a  remedy  for  so  desperate 
a  disease,  and  were  swift  to  avail  themselves 
of  any  weakness,  mental  or  bodily,  through 
which  to  retain  them  in  life.  One  of  these 
proprietors  being  informed  that  a  number  of 
his  people  intended  to  kill  themselves  on  a 
certain  day,  at  a  particular  spot,  and  knowing 
by  experience  that  they  were  too  likely  to  do 
it,  presented  himself  there  at  the  time  which 
had  been  fixed  upon,  and  telling  the  Indians 
when  they  arrived  that  he  knew  their  intention 
and  that  it  was  vain  for  them  to  attempt  to 
keep  anything  a  secret  from  him,  he  ended 
with  saying,  that  he  had  come  there  to  kill 
himself  with  them  ;  that  as  he  had  used  them 
ill  in  this  world,  he  might  use  them  worse  in  the 
next; '  with  which  he  did  dissuade  them  presently 
from  their  purpose.'  With  what  efficacy  such 
believers  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul  were 
likely  to  recommend  cither  their  faith  or  their 
God';  rather,  how  terribly  all  the  devotion  and 
all  the  earnestness  with  which  the  poor  priests 
who  follow-ed  in  the  wake  of  the  conqueror 
labored  to  recommend  it  were  shamed  and 
paralyzed,  they  themselves  too  bitterly  lament. 

It  was  idle  to  send  out  governor  after  gov- 
ernor with  orders  to  stay  such  practices.  They 
had  but  to  arrive  on  the  scene  to  become  in- 
fected with  the  same  fever  ;  or  if  any  remnant 
of  Castilian  honor,  or  any  faintest  echoes  of 
the  faith  which  they  professed,  still  flickered 
in  a  few  of  the  best  and  noblest,  they  could 
but    look    on    with    folded  hands  in  ineffectual 


2o8  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

mourning ;  they  could  do  nothing  without 
soldiers,  and  the  soldiers  were  the  worst  offen- 
ders. Hispaniola  became  a  desert ;  the  gold 
was  in  the  mines,  and  there  were  no  slaves 
left  remaining  to  extract  it.  One  means  which 
the  Spaniards  dared  to  employ  to  supply  the 
vacancy,  brought  about  an  incident  which  in 
its  piteous  pathos  exceeds  any  story  we  liave 
ever  heard.  Crimes  and  criminals  are  swept 
awav  bv  time,  nature  finds  an  antidote  for  their 
poison,  and  they  and  their  ill  consequences  alike 
are  blotted  out  and  perish.  If  we  do  not  for- 
give the  villain  at  least  we  cease  to  hate  him, 
as  it  grows  more  clear  to  us  that  he  injures 
none  so  deeply  as  himself.  But  the  Orjptuj^rjs 
KaKia,  the  enormous  wickedness  by  which  hu- 
manity itself  has  been  outraged  and  disgraced, 
we  cannot  forgive  ;  we  cannot  cease  to  hate 
that ;  the  years  roll  away,  but  the  tints  of  it 
remain  on  the  pages  of  history,  deep  and  hor- 
rible as  the  day  on  which  they  were  entered 
there. 

When  the  Spaniards  understood  the  simple  opinion 
of  the  Yucatan  islanders  concerning  the  souls  of  tiieir 
dei)artcd,  which,  after  their  sins  purged  in  the  cold 
northern  mountains  should  pass  into  the  south,  to  the 
intent  that,  leaving  their  own  country  of  their  own  ac- 
cord, thcv  might  suffer  themselves  to  be  brought  to  His- 
paniola, they  did  persuade  those  poor  wretches,  that 
they  came  from  those  places  where  they  should  see  their 
parents  and  children,  and  all  their  kindred  and  friends 
that  were  dead,  and  should  enjoy  all  kinds  (jf  delights 
with  the  embraccnients  and  fruition  of  all  beloved  be- 
ings. And  they,  being  infected  and  possessed  with  these 
crafty  and  subtle  imaginations,  singing  and  rejoicing 
left  their  country,  and  followed  vain  and  idle  hope. 
Hut  when  they  saw  that  they  were  deceived,  and  neither 
met  their  ])arents  nor  any  that  they  desired,  nut  were 
compelled  to  undergo  grievous  sovereignty  and  com- 
mand, and  to  endure  cruel  and  extreme  labor,  they 
cither  slew  themselves,  or,  choosing  to  famish,  gave  up 
their  fair  spirits,  being  persuaded  by  no  reason  or  vio- 
lence to  take  food.  So  these  miserable  Yucatans  came 
to  their  end. 

It  was  once  more  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the 
Apostles.     The  New  World  was  first   offered 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES. 


209 


to  the  holders  of  tlie  old  traditions.  They 
were  the  husbandmen  first  chosen  for  the  new 
vineyard,  and  blood  and  desolation  were  the 
only  fruits  which  they  reared  upon  it.  In 
their  hands  it  was  becoming  a  kingdom,  not  of 
God,  but  of  the  devil,  and  a  sentence  of  blight 
went  out  against  them  and  against  their  w'orks. 
How  fatally  it  has  worked,  let  modern  Spain 
and  Spanish  America  bear  witness.  We  need 
not  follow  further  the  history  of  their  dealings 
with  the  Indians.  For  their  colonies,  a  fatality 
appears  to  have  followed  all  attempts  at  Catho- 
lic colonization.  Like  shoots  from  an  old  de- 
caying tree  which  no  skill  and  no  care  can 
rear,  they  were  planted,  and  for  a  while  they 
might  seem  to  grow  ;  but  their  life  was  never 
more  than  a  lingering  death,  a  failure,  which  to 
a  thinking  person  would  outweigh  in  the  ar- 
guments against  Catholicism  whole  libraries 
of  faultless  catenas,  and  a  conse?isus  patrum 
unbroken  through  fifteen  centuries  for  the 
supremacy  of  St  Peter. 

There  is  no  occasion  to  look  for  superstitious 
causes  to  explain  the  phenomenon.  The 
Catholic  faith  had  ceased  to  be  the  faith  of 
the  large  mass  of  earnest  thinking  capable  per- 
sons ;  and  to  those  who  can  best  do  the  work, 
all  work  in  this  world  sooner  or  later  is  com- 
mitted, America  was  the  natural  home  for 
Protestants ;  persecuted  at  home,  they  sought 
a  place  where  they  might  worship  God  in  their 
own  way,  without  danger  of  stake  or  gibbet, 
and  the  French  Huguenots,  as  afterwards  the 
English  Puritans,  early  found  their  way  there. 
The  fate  of  a  party  of  Coligny's  people,  who 
had  gone  out  as  settlers,  shall  be  the  last  of 
these  stories,  illustrating,  as  it  does  in  the 
highest  deirree,  the  wrath  and  fury  with  which 
the  passions  on  both  sides  were  l)oiling.  A 
certain  John  Ribault,  with  about  400  compan- 
ions, had  emigrated  to  Florida.  They  were 
quiet  inoffensive  people,  and  lived  in  peace 
there  several  years,  cultivating  the  soil,  build- 


2IO  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

ing  villages,  and  on  the  best  possible  terms 
•with  tlie  natives.  Spain  was  at  the  time  at 
peace  with  France  ;  we  are,  therefore,  to  sup- 
pose that  \'i  was  in  pursuance  of  the  great  cru- 
sade, in  which  they  might  feel  secure  of  the 
secret,  if  not  the  confessed,  sympathy  of  the 
Guises,  that  a  powerful  Spanish  fleet  bore 
down  upon  this  settlement.  The  French  made 
no  resistance,  and  they  were  seized  and  flayed 
alive,  and  their  bodies  hung  out  upon  the 
trees,  with  an  inscription  suspended  over  them, 
*  Not  as  Frenchmen,  but  as  heretics.'  At  Paris 
all  was  sweetness  and  silence.  The  settlement 
was  tranquilly  surrendered  to  the  same  men 
who  had  made  it  the  scene  of  their  atrocity ; 
and  two  years  later,  500  of  the  very  Spaniards 
who  had  been  most  active  in  the  murder  were 
living  there  in  peaceable  possession,  in  two 
forts  which  their  relation  with  the  natives  had 
obliged  them  to  build.  It  was  well  that  there 
were  other  Frenchmen  living,  of  whose  con- 
sciences the  Court  had  not  the  keeping,  and 
who  were  able  on  emerijencies  to  do  what  was 
right  without  consulting  it.  A  certain  priva- 
teer, named  Dominique  de  Gourges,  secretly 
armed  and  equipped  a  vessel  at  Rochelle,  and 
stealing  across  the  Atlantic  and  in  two  days 
collecting  a  strong  party  of  Indians,  he  came 
down  suddenly  upon  the  forts,  and,  taking 
them  by  storm,  slew  or  afterwards  hanged 
every  man  he  found  there,  leaving  their  bodies 
on  the  trees  on  which  they  had  hanged  the 
Huguenots,  with  their  own  inscription  reversed 
against  them, — 'Not  as  Spaniards,  but  as 
murderers.'  For  which  exploit,  well  deserving 
of  all  honest  men's  praise,  'Dominique  de 
Gourges  had  to  fly  his  country  for  his  life ; 
and,  coming  to  England,  was  received  with 
honorable  welcome  by  I^lizabeth. 

It  was  at  such  a  time,  and  lo  take  their  part 
amidst  such  scenes  as  these,  that  the  English 
navigators  ajjpeared  along  the  shores  of  South 
America,  as  the  armed  soldiers  of  the  Reforma- 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  211 

tion,  and  as  the  avengers  of  humanity.  As 
their  enterprise  was  grand  and  lofty,  so  for 
the  most  part  was  the  manner  in  which  they 
bore  themselves  worthy  of  it.  They  were  no 
nation  of  saints,  in  the  modern  sentimental 
sense  of  that  word ;  they  were  prompt,  stern 
men — more  ready  ever  to  strike  an  enemy 
than  to  parley  with  him  ;  and,  private  adven- 
turers as  they  all  were,  it  was  natural  enough 
that  private  rapacity  and  private  badness 
should  be  found  among  them  as  among  other 
mortals.  Every  Englishman  who  had  the 
means  was  at  liberty  to  fit  out  a  ship  or  ships, 
and  if  he  could  produce  tolerable  vouchers  for 
himself,  received  at  once  a  commission  from 
the  Court.  The  battles  of  England  were 
fought  by  her  children,  at  their  own  risk  and 
cost,  and  they  were  at  liberty  to  repay  them- 
selves the  expense  of  their  expeditions  by 
plundering  at  the  cost  of  the  national  enemy. 
Thus,  of  course,  in  a  mixed  world,  there  were 
found  mixed  marauding  crews  of  scoundrels, 
who  played  the  game  which  a  century  later 
was  ]tlayed  with  such  effect  by  the  pirates  of 
the  Tortugas.  Negro  hunters  too,  there  were, 
and  a  bad  black  slave  trade — in  which  Elizabeth 
herself,  being  hard  driven  for  money,  did  not 
disdain  to  invest  her  capital — but  on  the  whole, 
and  in  the  war  with  the  Spaniards,  as  in  the 
war  with  the  elements,  the  conduct  and  char- 
acter of  the  English  sailors,  considering  what 
they  were  and  the  work  which  they  were  sent 
to  do,  present  us  all  through  that  age  with  such 
a  picture  of  gallantry,  disinterestedness,  and 
high  heroic  energy,  as  has  never  been  over- 
matched ;  the  more  remarkable,  as  it  was  the 
fruit  of  no  drill  or  discipline,  no  tradition,  no 
system,  no  organized  training,  but  was  the  free 
native  growth  of  a  noble  virgin  soil. 

Before  starting  on  an  expedition,  it  was 
usual  for  the  crew  and  the  officers  to  meet  and 
arrange  among  themselves  a  series  of  articles 
of  conduct,  to  which  they  bound  themselves  by 


2J2  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

a  formal  agreement,  the  entire  body  itself  un- 
dertaking to  see  to  their  observance.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  strong  religious  profession, 
and  even  sincere  profession,  might  be  accom- 
panied, as  it  was  in  the  Spaniards,  with  every- 
thing most  detestable.  It  is  not  sufficient  of 
itself  to  prove  that  their  actions  would  corre- 
spond with  it,  but  it  is  one  among  a  number  of 
evidences  ;  and  coming  as  most  of  these  men 
come  before  us,  with  hands  clear  of  any  blood 
but  of  fair  and  open  enemies,  their  articles  may 
pass  at  least  as  indications  of  what  they  were. 
Here  we  have  a  few  instances  : — 
Richard  Hawkins's  ship's  company  was,  as 
he  himself  informs  us,  an  unusually  loose  one. 
Nevertheless,  we  find  them  '  gathered  together 
every  morning  and  evening  to  serve  God  ; ' 
and  a  fire  on  board,  which  only  Hawkins's 
presence  of  mind  prevented  from  destroying 
ship  and  crew  together,  was  made  use  of  by 
the  men  as  an  occasion  to  banish  swearing  out 
of  the  ship. 

With  a  general  consent  of  all  our  company,  it  was  or- 
dained that  there  should  be  a  palmer  or  ferula  which 
should  be  in  the  keeping  of  him  who  was  taken  with  an 
oath  ;  and  that  he  who  had  the  palmer  should  give  to 
every  one  that  he  took  swearing,  a  palmada  with  it  and 
the  ferula;  and  whosoever  at  the  time  of  evening  or 
morning  prayer  was  found  to  have  the  palmer,  should 
have  three  blows  given  him  Ijy  the  captain  or  the  mas- 
ter; and  that  he  should  still  be  bound  to  free  himself  by 
taking  another,  or  else  to  run  in  danger  of  continuing 
the  penalty,  wliich  being  executed  a  few  days,  reformed 
the  vice,  so  that  in  three  days  together  was  not  one  oath 
heard  to  be  sworn. 

The  regulations  for  Luke  Fox's  voyage  Com- 
menced thus  : — 

For  as  much  as  the  good  success  and  ^rosj^erity  of 
every  action  doth  consist  in  the  due  service  and  glorify- 
fying  of  Ood,  knowing  that  not  only  our  Ijeing  and  pres- 
ervation, but  the  jirospcrity  of  all  our  actions  and  en- 
terprises, do  immediately  depend  on  His  Almighty 
goodness  and  mercy;  it  is  provided — 

First,  that  ail  the  company,  as  well  officers  as  others, 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES. 


213 


shall  duly  repair  every  day  twice  at  the  call  of  the  bell 
to  hear  inihlic  prayers  to  be  read,  such  as  are  authorized 
by  the  Church,  and  that  in  a  godly  and  devout  manner, 
as  good  Christians  ought. 

Secondly,  that  no  man  shall  swear  by  the  name  of 
God,  or  use  any  profane  oath,  or  blaspheme  I  lis  holy 
name. 

To  symptoms  such  as  these,  we  cannot  but 
assign  a  very  different  value  when  they  are  the 
spontaneous  growth  of  common  minds,  un- 
stimulated by  sense  of  propriety  or  rules  of  the 
service,  or  other  official  influence  lay  or  eccle- 
siastic, from  what  attaches  to  the  somewhat 
similar  ceremonials  in  which  among  persons 
whose  position  is  conspicuous,  important  en- 
terprises are  now  and  then  inaugurated. 

We  have  said  as  much  as  we  intend  to  say  of 
the  treatment  by  the  Spaniards  of  the  Indian 
women.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  is  commonly  rep- 
resented by  historians  as  rather  defective,  if 
he  was  remarkable  at  all,  on  the  moral  side  of 
his  character.  Yet  Raleigh  can  declare  proud- 
1}^,  that  all  the  time  he  was  on  the  Oronoko, 
'neither  by  force  nor  other  means  had  any  of 
his  men  intercourse  with  any  woman  there  ; ' 
and  the  narrator  of  the  incidents  of  Raleigh's 
last  voyage  acquaints  his  correspondent  '  with 
some  particulars  touching  the  government  of 
the  fleet,  which,  although  other  men  in  their 
voyages  doubtless  in  some  measure  observed, 
yet  in  all  the  great  volumes  which  have  been 
written  touching  voyages,  there  is  no  precedent 
of  so  godly  severe  and  martial  government, 
which  not  only  in  itself  is  laudable  and  worthy 
of  imitation,  but  is  also  fit  to  be  written  and 
engraven  on  every  man's  soul  that  coveteth  to 
do  honor  to  his  country.' 

Once  more,  the  modern  theory  of  Drake  is, 
as  we  said  above,  that  he  was  a  gentleman-like 
pirate  on  a  large  scale,  who  is  indebted  for  the 
place  which  he  fills  in  history  to  the  indistinct 
ideas  of  right  and  wrong  prevailing  in  the  un- 
enlightened age  in    which  he   lived,  and  who 


214 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


therefore  demands  all  the  toleration  oT  our  own 
enlarged  humanity  to  allow  him  to  remain 
there.  Let  us  see  hnw  the  following  incident 
can  be  made  to  coincide  with  this  hypo- 
thesis : — 

A  few  days  after  clearing  the  Channel  on  his 
first  great  voyage,  he  fell  in  with  a  small  Span- 
ish ship,  which  he  took  for  a  prize.  He  com- 
mitted the  care  of  it  to  a  certain  Mr,  Doughtie, 
a  person  much  trusted  by,  and  personally  very 
dear  to  him,  and  this  second  vessel  v/as  to  fol- 
low him  as  a  tender. 

In  dangerous  expeditions  into  unknown  seas, 
a  second  smaller  ship  was  often  indispensable 
to  success  ;  but  many  finely  intended  enter- 
prises were  ruined  by  the  cowardice  of  the  offi- 
cers to  whom  such  ships  were  entrusted  ;  who 
shrank  as  danger  thickened,  and  again  and  again 
took  advantage  of  darkness  or  heavy  weather  to 
make  sail  for  England  and  forsake  their  com- 
mander. Hawkins  twice  suffered  in  this  way; 
so  did  Sir  Humfrey  Gilbert ;  and,  although 
Drake's  own  kind  feeling  for  his  old  friend  has 
prevented  him  from  leaving  an  exact  account  of 
his  offence,  we  gather  from  the  scattered  hints 
which  are  let  fall,  that  he,  too,  was  meditating  a 
similar  piece  of  treason.  However,  it  may  or 
may  not  have  been  thus.  But  when  at  Port  St. 
Julien,  'our  General,'  says  one  of  the  crew, — 

r.egan  to  inquire  diligently  of  the  actions  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Doughlie,  and  found  them  not  to  be  such  as  he 
looked  for,  but  tending  rather  to  contention  or  mutiny, 
or  some  other  disorder,  whereby,  without  redrcsse,  the 
success  of  the  voyage  might  greatly  have  been  hazarded. 
Whereupon  the  company  was  called  together  and  made 
acrjuainted  with  the  particulars  of  the  cause,  which  were 
found,  jnirtly  by  Mr.  IJoughtie's  own  confession,  and 
jxartly  by  the  evidence  of  the  fact,  to  be  true,  which, 
when  our  (Jencral  saw,  altliough  his  j^rivate  affection  to 
Mr.  Doughtie  (as  he  then,  in  the  jirescnce  of  us  all,  sac- 
redly jjrotested)  was  great,  yet  the  care  which  he  had 
of  the  .state  of  the  voyage,  of  the  expectation  of  Her 
Majesty,  and  of  the  honor  of  his  country,  did  more 
touch  him,  as  indeed  it  ought,  than  the  jirivate  respect 
of  one  man  ;  so  that  the  cause  being  thoroughly  heard, 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  215 

and  all  things  done  in  good  order  .is  near  as  might  be  to 
the  course  ot  our  law  in  England,  it  was  concluded  that 
Mr.  Dt)ughtic  shoulil  receive  i>Mnishnient  according  to 
the  quality  of  the  offence.  And  he,  seeing  no  remedy 
but  patience  for  iiimself,  desired  before  his  death  to  re- 
ceive the  communion,  which  he  did  at  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Fletcher,  our  minister,  and  our  General  himself  accom- 
panied him  in  that  holy  action,  which,  being  done,  and 
the  place  of  execution  made  ready,  he,  having  em- 
braced our  General,  and  taken  le.ave  of  all  the  com- 
pany, with  prayers  for  the  Queen's  Majesty  and  our 
realm,  in  quiet  sort  laid  h  s  head  to  the  block,  where  he 
ended  his  life.  This  being  done,  our  General  made 
divers  speeches  to  the  whole  company,  persuading  us  to 
unity,  obedience,  love,  and  regard  of  our  voyage,  and 
for  the  better  confirmation  thereof,  willed-every  man  the 
next  Sunday  following  to  prei)are  himself  to  receive  the 
communion,  as  Christian  brethren  and  friends  ought  to 
do,  which  was  done  in  very  reverent  sort,  and  so  with 
good  contentment  every  man  went  about  his  business. 

The  simple  majesty  of  this  anecdote  can 
gain  nothing  from  any  comment  which  we 
might  offer  upon  it.  The  crew  of  a  common 
English  ship  organizing,  of  their  own  free  mo- 
tion, on  that  wild  shore,  a  judgment  hall  more 
grand  and  awful  than  any  most  elaborate  law 
court,  is  not  to  be  reconciled  with  the  pirate 
theory.  Drake,  it  is  true,  appropriated  and 
brought  home  a  million  and  a  half  of  Spanish 
treasure,  while  England  and  Spain  were  at 
peace.  He  took  that  treasure  because  for  many 
years  the  ofliccrs  of  the  Inquisition  had  made 
free  at  their  pleasure  with  the  lives  and  goods  of 
English  merchants  and  seamen.  The  king  of 
Spain,  when  appealed  to,  had  replied  that  he 
had  no  power  over  the  Holy  House  ;  and  it 
was  necessary  to  make  the  king  of  Spain,  or 
the  Inquisition,  or  whoever  were  the  parties 
responsible,  feel  that  they  could  not  play  their 
pious  pranks  with  impunity.  When  Drake 
seized  the  bullion  at  Panama,  he  sent  word  to 
the  Viceroy  that  he  should  now  learn  to  respect 
the  properties  of  English  subjects ;  and  he 
added,  that  if  four  English  sailors,  who  were 
prisoners  in  Mexico,  were  molested,  he  would 
execute  2,000  Spaniards  and  send  the  Viceroy 


2i6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

their  heads.  Spain  and  England  were  at 
peace,  but  Popery  and  Protestantism  were  at 
war — deep,  deadly,  and  irreconcilable. 

Wherever  we  find  them,  they  are  still  the 
same.  In  the  courts  of  Japan  or  of  China ; 
fighting  Spaniards  in  the  Pacific,  or  prisoners 
among  the  Algerines  ;  founding  colonies  which 
by-and-by  were  to  grow  into  enormous  Trans- 
atlantic republics,  or  exploring  in  crazy  pin- 
naces the  fierce  latitudes  of  the  Polar  seas, — 
they  are  the  same  indomitable  God-fearing  men 
whose  life  was  one  great  liturgy.  '  The  ice 
was  strong,  but  God  was  stronger,'  says  one  of 
Frobisher's  men,  after  grinding  a  night  and  a 
day  among  the  icebergs,  not  waiting  for  God 
to  come  down  and  split  the  ice  for  them,  but 
toiling  through  the  long  hours,  himself  and  the 
rest  fending  off  the  vessel  with  poles  and 
planks,  with  death  glaring  at  them  out  of  the 
rocks.  Icebergs  were  strong,  Spaniards  were 
strong,  and  storms,  and  corsairs,  and  rocks 
and  reefs,  which  no  chart  had  then  noted — 
they  were  all  strong  ;  but  God  was  stronger, 
and  that  was  all  which  they  cared  to  know. 

Out  of  the  vast  numbers  of  illustrations  it  is 
difficult  to  make  wise  selections,  but  the  atten- 
tion floats  loosely  over  generalities,  and  only 
individual  instances  can  seize  it  and  hold  it 
fast.  We  shall  attempt  to  bring  our  readers 
face  to  face  with  some  of  these  men  ;  not,  of 
course,  to  write  their  biographies,  but  to  sketch 
the  details  of  a  few  scenes,  in  the  hope  that 
they  may  tempt  those  under  whose  eyes  they 
may  fall  to  look  for  themselves  to  complete 
the  perfect  figure. 

Some  two  miles  above  the  port  of  Dartmouth, 
once  among  the  most  important  harbors  in 
England,  on  a  projecting  angle  of  land  which 
runs  out  into  the  river  at  the  head  of  one  of  its 
most  beautiful  reaches,  there  has  stood  for 
some  centuries  the  Manor  House  of  Green- 
away.  The  water  runs  deep  all  the  way  to  it 
from  the  sea,  and  the  largest  vessels  may  ride 


FOKCOTTEN  WORTHIES.  217 

with  safely  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  win- 
dows. In  the  latter  half  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury there  must  have  met,  in  the  hall  of  this 
mansion,  a  party  as  remarkable  as  could  have 
been  found  anywhere  in  England.  Humfrey 
and  Adrian  Gilbert,  with  their  half-brother, 
Walter  Raleigh,  here,  when  little  boys,  played 
at  sailors  in  the  reaches  of  Long  Stream  ;  in 
the  summer  evenings  doubtless  rowing  down 
with  the  tide  to  the  port,  and  wondering  at  the 
quaint  figure-heads  and  carved  prows  of  the 
ships  which  thronged  it;  or  climbing  on  board, 
and  listening,  with  hearts  beating,  to  the  mar- 
iners' tales  of  the  new  earth  beyond  the  sun- 
set. And  here  in  later  life,  matured  men,  whose 
boyish  dreams  had  become  heroic  action,  they 
used  again  to  meet  in  the  intervals  of  quiet, 
and  the  rock  is  shown  underneath  the  house 
where  Raleigh  smoked  the  first  tobacco.  An- 
other remarkable  man,  of  whom  we  shall  pres- 
ently speak  more  closely,  could  not  fail  lo  have 
made  a  fourth  at  these  meetings.  A  sailor  boy 
of  Sandwich,  the  adjoining  parish,  John  Davis, 
showed  early  a  genius  which  could  not  have 
escaped  the  eye  of  such  neighbors,  and  in  the 
atmosphere  of  Greenaway  he  learned  to  be  as 
noble  as  the  Gilberts,  and  as  tender  and  deli- 
cate as  Raleigh.  Of  this  party,  for  the  present 
we  confine  ourselves  to  the  host  and  owner, 
Humfrey  Gilbert,  knighted  afterwards  by  Eliza- 
beth. Led  by  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  to 
the  sea  and  to  see  adventures,  and  afterwards, 
as  his  mind  unfolded,  to  study  his  profession 
scientifically,  we  find  him  as  soon  as  he  was 
old  enough  to  think  for  himself,  or  make  others 
listen  to  him,  'amending  the  great  errors  of 
naval  sea  cards,  whose  common  fault  is  to 
make  the  degree  of  longitude  in  every  latitude 
of  one  common  bigness ;  '  inventing  instru- 
ments for  taking  observations,  studying  the 
form  of  the  earth,  and  convincing  himself  that 
there  was  a  north-west  passage,  and  studying 
the  necessities  of  his  country,  and  discovering 


2ig  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

the  remedies  for  them  in  colonization  and  ex- 
tended markets  for  home  manufactures.  Gil- 
bert was  examined  before  the  Queen's  Majesty 
and  the  Privy  Counsel,  and  the  record  of  his 
examination  he  has  himself  left  to  us  in  a 
paper  which  he  afterwards  drew  up,  and  strange 
enough  reading  it  is.  The  most  admirable 
conclusions  stand  side  by  side  with  the  wildest 
conjectures. 

Homer  and  Aristotle  are  pressed  into  ser- 
vice to  prove  that  the  ocean  runs  round  the 
three  old  continents,  and  that  America  there- 
fore is  necessarily  an  island.  The  Gulf  Stream, 
which  he  had  carefully  observed,  eked  out  by  a 
theory  of  the. primum  mobile,  is  made  to  demon- 
strate a  channel  to  the  north,  corresponding 
to  Magellan's  Straits  in  the  south,  Gilbert  be* 
lieving,  in  common  with  almost  every  one  of 
his  day,  that  these  straits  were  the  only  open- 
ing into  the  Pacific,  and  the  land  to  the  south 
was  unhroken  to  the  Pole.  He  prophesies  a 
market  in  the  East  for  our  manufactured  linen 
and  calicoes  : — 

The  Easterns  greatly  prizing  the  same,  as  appeareth 
in  Hester,  where  the  pomp  is  expressed  of  the  great 
King  of  India,  Ahasuerus,  wlio  matched  the  colored 
clothes  wherewith  his  houses  and  tents  were  apparelled, 
with  gold  and  silver,  as  part  of  his  greatest  treasure. 

These  and  other  such  arguments  were  the 
best  analysis  which  Sir  Humfrey  had  to  offer 
of  the  spirit  which  he  felt  to  be  working  in  him. 
We  may  think  what  we  please  of  them  ;  but 
we  can  have  but  one  thought  of  the  great 
grand  words  with  which  the  memorial  con- 
cludes, and  they  alone  would  explain  the  love 
which  Elizabeth  bore  him  : — 

Never,  therefore,  mislike  with  me  for  taking  in  hand 
any  laudable  and  honest  enterprise,  for  if  through  pleas- 
ure or  idleness  we  purchase  shame,  the  pleasure  vanish- 
eth,  but  the  shame  abideth  forever. 

Give  me  leave,  thv^rcfore,  without  offence,  always  to 
live  and  die  in  this  mind  ;  that  he  is  not  worthy  to  live 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES. 


219 


at  all  that,  for  fear  or  danger  of  death,  shunneth  his 
country's  service  and  his  own  honor,  seeing  that  death  is 
inevitable  and  the  fame  of  virtue  inimorial,  wherefore 
in  this  behalf  miitarc  vcl  timere  sperrio. 

Two  voyages  which  he  undertook  at  his  own 
cost,  which  shattered  his  fortune,  and  failed, 
as  they  naturally  might,  since  inefficient  help 
or  mutiny  of  subordinates,  or  other  disorders, 
are  inevitable  conditions  under  which  more  or 
less  great  men  must  be  content  to  see  their 
great  thoughts  mutilated  by  the  feebleness  of 
their  instruments,  did  not  dishearten  him,  and 
in  June  1583  a  last  fleet  of  five  ships  sailed 
from  the  port  of  Dartmouth,  with  commission 
from  the  Queen  to  discovered  and  take  posses- 
sion from  latitude  450  to  50"  North — a  voyage 
not  a  little  noteworthy,  there  being  planted  in 
the  course  of  it  the  first  English  colony  west  of 
the  Atlantic.  Elizabeth  had  a  foreboding  that 
she  would  never  see  him  again.  She  sent  him 
a  jewel  as  a  last  token  of  her  favor,  and  she 
desired  Raleigh  to  have  his  picture  taken 
before  he  went. 

The  history  of  the  voyage  was  written  by  a 
Mr.  Edward  Hayes,  of  Dartmouth,  one  of  the 
principal  actors  in  it,  and  as  a  composition  it  is 
more  remarkable  for  fine  writing  than  any 
very  commendable  thought  in  the  author.  But 
Sir  Humfrey's  nature  shines  through  the  in- 
firmity of  his  chronicler  ;  and  in  the  end, 
indeed,  Mr  Hayes  himself  is  subdued  into  a 
better  mind.  He  had  lost  money  by  the  voy- 
age, and  we  will  hope  his  higher  nature  was 
was  only  under  a  temporary  eclipse.  The  fleet 
consisted  (it  is  well  to  observe  the  ships  and 
the  size  of  them)  of  the  '  Delight,'  120  tons  ;  the 
barque  '  Raleigh.'  200  tons  (this  ship  deserted 
off  the  Land's  End)  ;  the  '  Golden  Hinde  '  and 
the  •  Swallow,'  40  tons  each  ;  and  the  '  Squirrel,' 
which  was  called  the  frigate,  10  tons.  Eor  the 
uninitiated  in  such  matters,  we  may  add,  that 
if  in  a  vessel  the  size  of  the  last,  a  member  of 
the  Yacht   Club  would  consider  that   he  had 


2  20  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

earned  a  club-room  immortality  if  he  had 
ventured  a  run  in  the  depth  of  summer  from 
Cowes  to  the  Channel  Islands. 

Wc  were  in  all  (says  Mr.  Ilayes)  260  men,  among  whom 
we  had  of  every  faculty  good  choice.  Besides,  for 
solace  of  our  own  people,  and  allurement  of  the  savages, 
we  are  provided  of  music  in  good  variety,  not  omitting 
the  least  toys  as,  morris  dancers,  hobby  horses,  and 
May-like  conceits  to  delight  the  savage  people. 

The  expedition  reached  Newfoundland  with- 
out accident.  St  John's  was  taken  posses- 
sion of,  and  a  colony  left  there  ;  and  Sir  Hum- 
frey  then  set  out  exploring  along  the  Ameri- 
can coast  to  the  south,  he  himself  doing  all  the 
work  in  his  little  lo-ton  cutter,  the  service 
being  too  dangerous  for  the  larger  vessels  to 
venture  on.  One  of  these  had  remained  at  St. 
John's.  He  was  now  accompanied  only  by  the 
'  Delight'  and  the  '  Golden  Hinde,'  and  these 
two  keeping  as  near  the  shore  as  they  dared, 
he  spent  what  remained  of  the  summer  examin- 
ing every  creek  and  bay,  marking  the  sound- 
ings, taking  the  bearings  of  the  possible 
harbors,  and  risking  his  life,  as  every  hour 
he  was  obliged  to  risk  it  in  such  a  service,  in 
thus  leading,  as  it  were,  the  forlorn  hope  in 
the  conquest  of  the  New  World.  How  dan- 
gerous it  was  we  shall  presently  see.  It  was 
towards  the  end  of  Augfust. 


*&' 


The  evening  was  fair  and  pleasant,  yet  not  without 
token  of  storm  to  ensue,  and  most  jiart  of  this  Wednes- 
day night,  like  the  swan  that  singeth  before  her  death, 
they  in  the  '  Delight '  continued  in  sounding  of  drums 
aiul  trumpets  and  fifes,  also  winding  the  cornets  and 
hautboys,  and  in  the  end  of  their  jollity  left  with  the 
battell  and  ringing  of  doleful  knells. 

Two  days  after  came  the  storm  ;  the  '  De- 
light'  struck  upon  a  bank,  and  went  down  in 
sight  of  the  other  vessels,  which  were  unable  to 
render  her  any  help.  Sir  Humfrey's  papers, 
among  other  things,   were  all  lost   in  her  ;  at 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  221 

the  lime  considered  by  him  an  irreparable 
misfortune.  But  it  was  little  matter,  he  was 
never  to  need  them.  The  '  Golden  Hinde  ' 
and  the  '  Squirrel '  were  now  left  alone  of  the 
five  ships.  The  provisions  were  running-short, 
and  the  summer  season  was  closing.  Both 
crews  were  on  short  allowance  ;  and  with  much 
difficulty  Sir  Humfrey  was  prevailed  upon 
to  be  satisfied  for  the  present  with  what  he  had 
done,  and  to  lay  off  for  England, 

So  upon  Saturday,  in  the  afternoon,  the  31st  of  Au- 
gust, we  changed  our  course,  and  returned  back  for 
England,  at  which  very  instant,  even  in  winding  about 
there  passed  along  between  us  and  the  land,  which  we 
now  forsook,  a  very  lion,  to  our  seeming,  in  shape,  hair, 
and  color  ;  not  swimming  after  the  manner  of  a  beast 
by  moving  of  his  feet,  but  rather  sliding  ujjon  the  water 
with  his  whole  body,  except  his  legs  in  sight, neither  yet 
diving  under  and  again  rising  as  the  manner  is  of  whales, 
porpoises,  and  other  fish,  but  confidently  showing  himself 
without  hiding,  notwithstanding  that  we  presented  our- 
selves in  open  view  and  gesture  to  amaze  him.  Thus 
he  passed  along,  turning  his  head  to  and  fro,  yawning  and 
gaping  wide,  with  ugly  demonstration  of  long  teeth 
and  glaring  eyes;  and  to  bidde  us  farewell,  coming  right 
against  the 'Hinde,'  he  sent  forth  a  horrible  voice, 
roaring  and  bellowing  as  doth  a  lion,  which  spectacle 
we  all  beheld  so  far  "as  we  were  able  to  discern  the 
same,  as  men  prone  to  wonder  at  every  strange  thing. 
What  opinion  others  had  thereof,  and  chiefly  the  Gen- 
eral himself,  I  forbear  to  deliver.  But  he  took  it  for 
Bonum  Omen,  rejoicing  that  he  was  to  war  against  such, 
an  enemy,  it  is  were  the  devil. 

We  have  do  doubt  that  he  did  think  it  was 
the  devil  ;  men  in  those  days  believing  really 
that  evil  Avas  more  than  a  principle  or  a  neces- 
sary accident,  and  that  in  call  their  labor  for 
God  and  for  right,  they  must  their  ccount  to 
have  to  fight  with  the  devil  in  his  proper 
person.  But  if  we  are  to  all  it  superstition, 
and  if  this  were  no  devil  in  the  form  of  a  roar- 
ing lion,  but  a  mere  great  seal  or  sea-lion,  it  is 
a  more  innocent  superstition  to  impersonate 
so  real  a  power,  and  it  requires  a  bolder  heart 
to  rise  up  against  it  and  defy   it  in  its  living 


2  22  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

terror,  than  to  sublimate  it  away  into  a  philo- 
sophical principle,  and  to  forget  a  battle  with 
it  in  speculating  on  its  origin  and  nature.  But 
to  follow  the  brave  Sir  Humfrey,  whose  work 
of  fighting  with  the  devil  was  now  over,  and 
who  was  passing  to  his  reward.  The  2nd  of 
September  the  General  came  on  board  the 
*  Golden  Hinde  '  '  to  make  merry  with  us.' 
He  greatly  deplored  the  loss  of  his  books  and 
papers,  but  he  was  full  of  confidence  from  what 
he  had  seen,  and  talked  with  eagerness  and 
warmth  of  the  new  expedition  for  the  following 
spring.  Apocryphal  gold-mines  still  occupiyng 
the  minds  of  Mr  Hayes  and  others,  the  were 
persuaded  that  Sir  Humfrey  was  keeping  to 
himself  some  such  discovery  which  he  had 
secretly  made,  and  they  tried  hard  to  extract  it 
from  him.  They  could  made  nothing,  however, 
of  his  odd,  ironical  answers,  and  their  sorrow 
at  the  catastrophe  which  followed  is  sadly 
blended  with  disappointment  that  such  a  secret 
should  have  perished.  Sir  Humfrey  doubtless 
saw  America  with  other  eyes  than  theirs,  and 
gold-mines  richer  than  California  in  its  huge 
rivers  and  savannahs. 

Leaving  the  issue  of  this  f;ood  hope  (about  the  gold), 
(contimies  Mr  Hayes),  to  God,  who  only  knowcth  the 
truth  thereof,  I  will  hasten  to  the  end  of  this  tragedy, 
which  must  be  knit  up  in  the  jjerson  of  our  General, 
and  as  it  was  Ciod's  ordinance  upon  him,  even  so  the 
vehement  jjersuasion  of  his  friends  could  nothing  avail 
to  divert  him  from  his  wilful  resolution  of  going  in  his 
frigate  ;  and  when  he  was  entreated  by  the  captain, 
master,  and  others,  his  well-wishers  in  the  '  Hinde,'  not 
to  venture,  this  was  his  answer — '  I'  will  not  forsake  my 
little  comi)any  going  homewards,  with  whom  I  have 
so  many  storms  and  jjerils.' 

Two-thirds  of  the  wav  home  they  met  foul 
weather  and  terrible  seas,  '  breaking  short  and 
pyramid-wise.'  Men  who  had  all  their  lives 
'  occupied  the  sea'  had  never  seen  it  more  out- 
rageous. '  We  had  also  ui)on  our  inainyard  an 
apparition  of  a  little  fire  by  night,  which  sea- 
men  do  call  Castor  and  Pollux.' 


FORGOTTEN  IVORTIIIES.  223 

Monday  the  ninth  of  Scptcmljcr,  in  the  afternoon,  the 
frigate  was  near  cast  away  op])ressccl  by  waves,  but  at 
that  time  recovered,  and  giving  forth  signs  of  joy,  the 
General,  sitting  abaft  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  cried 
unto  us  in  the  'Jlinde'  so  often  as  we  did  approach  within 
hearing,  '  We  are  as  near  to  heaven  by  sea  as  by  land,' 
reiterating  the  same  speech,  well  beseeming  a  soldier 
resolute  in  Jesus  Christ,  and  I  can  testify  that  he  was. 
The  same  Monday  night,  about  twelve  of  the  clock,  or 
not  long  after,  the  frigate  being  ahead  of  us  in  the  '  Gol- 
den Hinde,  suddenly  her  lights  were  out,  whereof  as 
it  were  in  a  moment  we  lost  the  sight  ;  and  withal  our 
watch  cried,  '  The  General  was  cast  away,'  which  was 
too  true. 

Thus  faithfully  (concludes  Mr  Hayes,  in  some  degree 
rising  above  himself)  I  have  related  this  story,  wherein 
some  spark  of  the  knight's  virtues,  though  he  be  extin- 
guished, may  happily  appear  ;  he  remaining  resolute  to 
a  purpose  honest  and  godly  as  was  this,  to  discover, 
possess  and  reduce  unto  the  service  of  God  and  Chris- 
tian piety,  those .  remote  and  heathen  countries  of 
America.  vSnch  is  the  infinite  bounty  of  God,  who  from 
every  evil  deriveth  good,  that  fruit  may  grow  in  time  of 
our  travelling  in  these  North-Western  lands  (as  has  it 
not  grown  ?),  and  the  crosses,  turmoils,  and  afHictions, 
both  in  the  preparation  and  execution  of  the  voyage  did 
correct  the  intemperate  humors  which  before  we  noted 
to  be  in  this  gentleman,  and  made  unsavory  and  less 
delightful  his  other  manifold  virtues. 

Thus  as  he  was  refined  and  made  nearer  unto  the 
image  of  God,  so  it  pleased  the  Divine  will  to  resume 
him  unto  Himself,  whither  both  his  and  every  other  high 
and  noble  mind  have  always  aspired. 

Such  was  Sir  Humfrey  Gilbert;  still  in  the 
prime  of  his  years  when  the  Atlantic  swallowed 
him.  Like  the  gleam  of  a  landscape  lit  sud- 
denly for  a  moment  by  the  lightning,  these  few 
scenes  flash  down  to  us  across  the  centuries  : 
but  what  a  life  must  that  have  been  of  which 
this  was  the  conclusion  !  We  have  glimpses  of 
him  a  few  years  earlier,  when  he  won  his  spurs 
in  Ireland — won  them  by  deeds  which  to  us 
seem  terrible  in  their  ruthlessness,  but  which 
won  the  applause  of  Sir  Henry  Sidney  as  too 
high  for  praise  or  even  reward.  Checkered 
like  all  of  us  with  lines  of  light  and  darkness, 
he  was,  nevertheless,  one  of  a  race  which  has 
ceased  to  be.  We  look  round  for  them,  and 
we  can  hardly  believe  that  the   same  blood  is 


224 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


flowing  in  our  veins.  Brave  we  may  still  be, 
and  strong  perhaps  as  they,  but  the  liigh  moral 
grace  which  made  bravery  and  strength  so 
beautiful  is  departed  from  us  forever. 

Our  space  is  sadly  limited  for  historical  por- 
trait  painting ;  but   we    must   find    room    for 
another  of  that  Greenaway  party  whose  nature 
was  as  fine  as  that  of  Gilbert,  and  who  intellec- 
tually was  more  largely  gifted.     The  latter  was 
drowned   in  1583.     In    1585    John   Davis  left 
Dartmouth  on  his  first  vovage  into  the  Polar 
seas  ;  and  twice  subsequently  he   went   again, 
venturing  in  small  ill-equipped  vessels  of  thirty 
or  forty    tons    into   the   most  dangerous  seas. 
These  voyages  were  as  remarkable    for  their 
success  as  for  the  daring  with  which  they  were 
accomplished,  and  Davis's  epitaph  is   written 
on  the  map  of  the  world,  where  his  name  still  re- 
mains to  commemorate  his  discoveries.    Brave 
as    he   was,    he    is    distinguished   by  a   pecul- 
iar and  exquisite    sweetness   of   nature,  which, 
from  many  little  facts  of  his  life,  seems  to  have 
affected  every  one  with  whom  he  came  in  con- 
tact in  a   remarkable   degree.     We   find  men, 
for  the  love  of  Master  Davis,  leaving  their  fire- 
sides to   sail    with    him,    without    other   hope 
or    motion  :    we  find     silver    bullets  cast   to 
shoot  him  in  a  mutiny  ;  the  hard  rude  natures 
of  the  mutineers  being  awed  by  something  in 
liis  carriage  which  was  not  like  that  of  a  com- 
mon man.     He  has  written  the  account  of  one 
of  his  northern  voyages  himself  ;  one  of  those, 
by-the-by,   which    the    Hakluyt    Society    have 
mutilated  ;  and  there  is  an  imaginative  beauty 
in  it,  and  a  rich  delicacy  of  expression,  which  is 
called  out  in  him  by  the  first  sight  of  strange 
lands  and  things  and  people. 

To  show  what  he  was,  we  should  have  pre- 
ferred, if  possible  to  have  taken  the  story  of 
his  expedition  into  the  South  Seas,  in  which, 
under  circumstances  of  singular  difficulty,  he 
was  deserted  by  Candish,  under  whom  he  had 
sailed ;    and     after   inconceivable    trials  from 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  225 

famine,  mutiny,  and  storm,  ultimately  saved 
himseli;  and  liis  ship,  and  such  of  the  crew  as 
had  chosen  to  submit  to  his  -orders.  But  it  is 
a  long  history,  and  will  not  admit  of  being  cur- 
tailed. As  an  instance  of  the  stuff  of  which  it 
was  composed,  he  an  back  in  the  black  night 
in  a  gale  of  wind  through  the  Straits  of 
Magellan,  by  a  chart  which  he  had  f/iade  with 
the  eye  in  passing  up.  His  anchors  were  lost  or 
broken ;  the  cables  were  parted.  He  could 
not  bring  up  the  ship  ;  there  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  run,  and  he  carried  her  safe  through 
along  a  channel  often  not  three  miles  broad, 
sixty  miles  from  end  to  end,  and  twisting  like 
the  reaches  of  a  river. 

For  the  present,  however,  we  are  forced  to 
content  ourselves  with  a  few  sketches  out  of 
the  north-west  voyages.  Here  is  one,  for  in- 
stance, which  shows  how  an  Englishman  could 
deal  with  the  Indians.  Davis  had  landed  at  Gil- 
bert's Sound,  and  gone  up  the  country  explor- 
ing. On  his  return  he  found  his  crew  loud  in 
complaints  of  the  thievish  propensities  of  the 
natives,  and  urgent  to  have  an  example  made  of 
some  of  them.  On  the  next  occasion  he  fired 
a  gun  at  them  with  blank  cartridge  ;  but  their 
nature  was  still  too  strong  for  them. 

Seeing  iron  (lie  says),  they  could  in  no  c;ise  forbear 
stealing;  whicii,  when  I  perceived,  it  did  but  minister  to 
me  occasion  of  laughter  to  see  their  simplicity,  and  I 
willed  that  they  should  not  be  hardly  used,  but  that  our 
company  should  be  more  diligent  to  keep  their  things, 
supposing  it  to  be  very  hard  in  so  short  a  time  to  make 
them  know  their  evils. 

In  his  own  way,  however,  he  took  an  oppor- 
tunity of  administering  a  lesson  to  them  of  a 
more  wholesome  kind  than  could  be  given  with 
gunpowder  and  bullets.  Like  the  rest  of  his 
countrymen,  he  believed  the  savage  Indians 
in  their  idolatries  to  be  worshippers  of  the 
devil.  '  They  are  witches,'  he  says  ;  '  they  have 
images  in  great  store,  and  use   many  kinds  of 


226  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

enchantments.'  And  these  enchantments  they 
tried  on  one  occasion  to  put  in  force  against 
himself  and  his  crew. 

IJeing  on  shore  on  the  4th  day  of  July,  one  of  them 
made  a  long  oration,  and  then  kindled  a  fire,  into  which 
with  many  strange  words  and  gestures  he  put  divers 
things,  which  we  supposed  to  be  a  sacrifice.  Myself  and 
certain  of  my  company  standing  by,  they  desired  us  to 
go  into  the  smoke.  I  desired  them  to  go  into  the  smoke, 
which  they  would  by  no  means  do.  I  then  took  one  of 
them  and  thrust  him  into  the  smoke,  and  willed  one  of 
my  comi^any  to  tread  out  the,  fire  and  spurn  it  into  the 
sea,  wliich  was  done  to  show  them  that  we  did  contemn 
their  sorceries. 

It  is  a  very  English  story — exactly  what  a 
modern  Englishman  would  do  ;  only,  perhaps, 
not  believing  that  there  was  anv  real  devil  in 
the  case,  which  makes  a  difference.  However,- 
real  or  not  real,  after  seeing  him  patiently  put 
up  with  such  an  injury,  we  will  hope  the  poor 
Greenlander  had  less  respect  for  the  devil  than 
formerly. 

Leaving  Gilbert's  Sound,  Davis  went  on  to 
the  north-west,  and  in  lat.  63^  fell  in  with  a 
barrier  of  ice,  which  he  coasted  for  thirteen 
days  without  finding  an  opening.  The  very 
sight  of  an  iceberg  was  new  to  all  his  crew ; 
and  the  ropes  and  shrouds,  though  it  was  mid- 
summer, becoming  compassed  with  ice, — 

The  people  began  to  fall  sick  and  faint-hearted — 
whereupon,  very  orderly,  with  good  discretion,  they  en- 
treated me  to  regard  the  safety  of  mine  own  life,  as  well 
as  the  preservation  of  theirs;  and  that  I  should  not, 
through  overbouldness,  leave  their  widows  and  fatherless 
children  to  give  me  bitter  curses. 

Whereuj)on,  seeking  counsel  of  God,  it  pleased  His 
Divine  Majesty  to  move  my  heart  to  prosecute  that 
which  I  hojie  shall  be  to  Ilisglory,  and  to  the  contcnta- 
tion  of  every  Christian  mind. 

He  had  two  vessels — one  of  gome  burthen, 
the  other  a  pinnace  of  thirty  tons.  The  result 
of  the  counsel  which  lie  had  sought  was,  that 
he  made  over  his  own  large  vessel  to  such  as 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES.  227 

wished  to  return,  and  himself,  'thinking  it  bet- 
ter to  die  with  honor  than  to  return  with  in- 
famy,' went  on,  with  such  volunteers  as  would 
follow  him,  in  a  poor  leaky  cutter,  up  the  sea 
now  in  commemoration  of  that  adventure  called 
Davis's  Straits.  He  ascended  4''  North  of  the 
furthest  known  point,  among  storms  and  ice- 
bergs, when  the  long  days  and  twilight  nights 
alone  saved  him  from  being  destroyed,  and, 
coasting  back  along  the  American  shore,  he 
discovered  Hudson's  Straits,  supposed  then  to 
be  the  long-desired  entrance  into  the  Pacific. 
This  exploit  drew  the  attention  of  VValsing- 
ham,  and  by  him  Davis  was  presented  to  Bur- 
leigh, '  who  was  also  pleased  to  show  him  great 
encouragement.'  If  either  these  statesmen  or 
Elizabeth  had  been  twenty  years  younger,  his 
name  would  have  filled  a  larger  space  in  his- 
tory than  a  small  corner  of  the  map  of  the 
world  ;  but  if  he  was  employed  at  all  in  the 
last  years  of  the  century,  no  vates  sacer  has 
been  found  to  celebrate  his  work,  and  no  clue 
is  left  to  guide  us.  He  disappears  ;  a  cloud 
falls  over  him.  He  is  known  to  have  com- 
manded trading  vessels  in  the  Eastern,  seas; 
and  to  have  returned  five  times  from  India. 
But  the  details  are  all  lostj  and  accident  .has 
only  parted  the  clouds  for  a  moment  to  show 
us  the  mournful  setting  with  which  he,  too, 
went  down  upon  the  sea; 

In  taking  out  Sir  JEdward  Michellthorne  to 
India,  in  1604,  he  fell  in  with  a  cfew  of  Japa- 
nese, whose  ship  had  been  burnt,  drifting  at 
sea,  without  provisions,  in  a  leaky  junk.  He 
supposed  them  to  be  pirates,  but  he  did  not 
choose  to  leave  them  to  so  wretched  a  death, 
and  took  them  on  board  ;  and  in  a  few  hours, 
watching  their  opportunity,  they  murdered 
him. 

As  the  fool  dieth,  so  dieth  the  wise,  and  there 
no  is  difference  ;  it  was  the  chance  of  the  sea, 
the  ill  reward  of  a  humane  action — a  melan- 
cholv  end  for  such  a    man — like  the  end  of  a 


228  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

warrior,  not  dying  Epaminondas-like  on  the 
field  of  victory,  but  cut  off  in  some  poor  brawl 
or  ambuscade.  But  so  it  was  with  all  these 
men.  Thev  were  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  their 
days,  and  few  of  them  laid  their  bones  in  the 
sepulchres  of  their  fathers.  They  knew  the 
service  which  they  had  chosen,  and  they  did 
not  ask  the  wages  for  Avhich  they  had  not 
labored.  Life  with  them  was  no  summer  holi- 
day, hut  a  holy  sacrifice  offered  up  to  duty, 
and  what  their  Master  sent  was  welcome. 
Beautiful  is  old  age — beautiful  as  the  slow-drop- 
ping mellow  autumn  of  a  rich  glorious  summer. 
In  the  old  man,  nature  has  fulfilled  her  work  ; 
she  loads  him  with  her  blessings  ;  she  fills  him 
with  the  fruits  of  a  well-spent  life;  and,  sur- 
rounded by  his  children  and  his  children's 
children,  she  rocks  him  softly  away  to  a 
grave,  to  which  he  is  followed  with  blessings. 
God  forbid  we  should  not  call  it  beautiful.  It 
is  beautiful,  but  not  the  most  beautiful.  There 
is  another  life,  hard,  rough,  and  thorny,  trod- 
den with  bleeding  feet  and  aching  brow  ;  the 
life  of  which  the  cross  is  the  symbol  ;  a 
battle  which  no  peace  follows,  this  side  the 
grave  ;  which  the  grave  gapes  to  finish,  be- 
fore the  victory  is  won  ;  and — strange  that 
it  should  be  so — this  is  the  highest  life  of 
man.  Look  back  along  the  great  names 
of  history ;  there  is  none  whose  life  has 
been  other  than  this.  They  to  whom  it 
has  been  given  to  do  the  really  highest  work 
in  this  earth — whoever  they  are,  Jew,  or  Gen- 
tile, Pagan  or  Christian,  warriors,  legislators, 
philosophers,  priests,  poets,  kings,  slaves — one 
and  all,  their  fate  has  been  the  same — the 
same  bitter  cup  has  been  given  to  them  to 
drink.  And  so  it  was  with  the  servants  of 
PvDgland  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Their  life 
was  a  lon<:  battle,  either  with  the  elements  or 
with  men  ;  and  it  was  enough  for  them  to  ful- 
fil their  work,  and  to  pass  away  in  the  hour 
when  God  had  nothing  more  to  bid  them  do. 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES. 


229 


They  did  not  complain,  and  why  should  we 
complain  for  them  ?  Tcaccful  life  was  not 
what  they  desired,  and  an  honorable  death  had 
no  terrors  for  them.  Theirs  was  the  old  Gre- 
cian spirit,  and  the  great  heart  of  the  Theban 
poet  lived  again  in  them  : 

Qavtiv  6'  olaiv  dvayKa,  ri  Kt  n<;  uvuiwfwf 
yr/pa^  iv  aKori,)  KaU'fj/xevo^  trpoc  /larav, 
urruvTuv  kuAuv  u/ifcuput; -^ 

Seeing,'  in  Gilbert's  own  brave  words, 
*  that  death  is  inevitable,  and  the  fame  of 
virtue  is  immortal ;  wherefor  in  this  behalf 
niutare  vel  tuncre  spa-no,^ 

In  the  conclusion  of  these  light  sketches  we 
pass  into  an  element  different  from  that  in 
which  we  have  been  lately  dwelling.  The 
scenes  in  which  Gilbert  and  Davis  played  out 
their  high  natures  were  of  the  kind  which  we 
call  peaceful,  and  the  enemies  with  which  they 
contended  were  principally  the  ice  and  the 
wind,  and  the  stormy  seas  and  the  dangers  of 
unknown  and  savage  lands.  We  shall  close 
amidst  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  wrath  and 
rage  of  battle.  Hume,  who  alludes  to  the  en- 
gagement which  we  are  going  to  describe, 
speaks  of  it  in  a  tone  which  shows  that  he  looked 
at  it  as  something  portentous  and  prodigious  ; 
as  a  thing  to  wonder  at — but  scarcely  as  de- 
serving the  admiration  which  we  pay  to  actions 
properly  within  the  scope  of  humanity — and  as 
if  the  energy  which  was  displayed  in  it  was  like 
the  unnatural  strength  of  madness.  He  does 
not  say  this,  but  he  appears  to  feel  it ;  and  he 
scarcely  would  have  felt  it  if  he  had  cared  more 
deeply  to  saturate  himself  with  the  temper  of 
the  age  of  which  he  was  writing.  At  the  time, 
all  England  and  all  the  world  rang  with  the 
story.  It  struck  a  deeper  terror,  though  it  was 
but  the  action  of  a  single  ship,  into  the  hearts 
of  the  Spanish  people  ;  it  dealt  a  more  deadly 
blow  upon  their  fame  and  moral  strength  than 
the   destruction  of  the  Armada  itself;  and  in 


230  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

the  direct  results  which  rose  from  it,  it  was 
scarcely  less  disastrous  to  them.  Hardly,  as 
it  seems  to  us,  if  the  most  glorious  actions 
which  are  set  like  jewels  in  the  history  of 
mankind  are  weighed  one  against  the  other  in 
the  balance,  hardly  will  those  300  Spartans  who 
in  the  summer  morning  sat  *  combing  their  long 
hair  for  death  '  in  the  passes  of  Thermopylaj, 
have  earned  a  more  lofty  estimate  for  them- 
selves than  this  one  crew  of  a  modern  English- 
men. 

In  August  159I;  Lord  Thomas  Howard,  with 
six  English  line-of-battle  ships,  six  victuallers, 
and  two  or  three  pinnaces,  was  lying  at  anchor 
under  the  Island  of  Florez.  Light  in  ballast 
and  short  of  water,  with  half  his  men  disabled 
by  sickness,  Howard  was  unable  to  pursue  the 
the  aggressive  purpose  on  which  had  been  sent 
out.  Several  of  the  ships'  crews  were  on  shore  : 
the  ships  themselves  '  all  pestered  and  rommag- 
ing,'  with  everything  out  of  order.  In  this  con- 
dition they  were  surprised  by  a  Spanish  fleet 
consisting  of  53  men-of-war.  I^leven  out  of  the 
twelve  English  ships  obeyed  the  signal  of  the 
admiral,  to  cut  or  weigh  their  anchors  and 
escape  as  they  might.  The  twelfth,  the  '  Re- 
venge,' was  unable  for  the  moment  to  follow. 
Of  her  crew  of  190,  ninety  were  sick  on  shore, 
and,  from  the  position  of  the  ship,  there  was 
some  delay  and  difficulty  in  getting  them  on 
board.  The  '  Revenge  '  was  commanded  by 
Sir  Richard  Grenville,  of  Eideford,  a  man  well- 
known  in  the  Spanish  seas,  and  the  terror  of 
the  Spanish  sailors  ;  so  fierce  he  was  said  to 
be,  that  mythic  stories  passed  from  lip  to  lip 
about  him,  and,  like  Earl  Talbot  or  Cttiur  de 
Lion,  the  nurses  at  the  Azores  frightened 
children  with  the  sound  of  his  name.  '  He 
was  of  great  revenues,  of  his  own  inheritance,' 
they  said,  'but  of  unquiet  mind,  and  greatly 
affected  to  wars  ; '  and  from  his  uncontrollable 
propensities  for  blood-eating,  he  had  volun- 
teered his  services  to  the  (^ueen  ;  '  of  so  hard 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES. 


231 


a  complexion  was  lie,  that  I  (John  Hiiighcn 
von  Linschoten,  who  is  our  authority  here,  and 
who  was  with  the  Spanish  fleet  after  the  action) 
have  been  told  by  clivers  credible  persons  who 
stood  and  beheld  him,  that  he  would  carouse 
three  or  four  glasses  of  wine,  and  take  the 
classes  between  his  teeth  and  crush  them  in 
pieces  and  swallow  them  down.'  Such  Grenville 
was  to  the  Spaniard.  To  the  English  he  was  a 
goodly  and  gallant  gentleman,  who  had  never 
turned  his  back  upon  an  enemy,  and  was  remark- 
able in  that  remarkable  time  for  his  constancy 
and  daring.  In  this  surprise  at  Florez  he  was  in 
no  haste  to  flv.  He  first  saw  all  his  sick  on 
board  and  stowed  away  on  the  ballast,;  and 
then,  with  no  more  than  100  men  left  him  to 
fight  and  work  the  ship;  he  deliberately  weighed, 
uncertain,  as  it  seemed  at  first,  what  he  in- 
tended to  do.  The  Spanish  fleet  were  by  this 
time  on  his  weather  bow,  and  he  was  persuaded 
(we  here  take  his  cousin  Raleigh's  beautiful 
narrative,  and  follow  it  in  Raleigh's  words)  '  to 
cut  his  mainsail  and  cast  about,  and  trust  to 
the  sailing  of  the  ship  : ' — 

But  Sir  Richard  utterly  refused  to  turn  from  the 
enemy,  alledgiug  that  he  would  rather  choose  to  die  than 
to  dishonor  himself,  his  country,  and  her  Majesty's  ship, 
persuading  his  company  that  he  would  pass  through 
their  two  sciuadrons  in  spite  of  them,  and  enforce  those 
of  Seville  to  give  him  way:  which  he  performed  upon 
diverse  of  the  foremost,  who,  as  the  mariners  term  it, 
sprang  their  luff,  and  full  under  the  lee  of  the  Revenge.' 
15ut  the  other  course  had  been  the  better;  and  might 
right  well  have  been  answered  in  so  great  an  impossi- 
bility of  jjrcvailing:  notwithstanding,  out  of  the  greatness 
of  his  mind,  he  could  not  be  persuaded. 

The  wind  was  light ;  the  '  San  Philip,'  '  a 
huge  high-carged  ship  '  of  1500  tons,  came  up 
to  windward  of  him,  and,  taking  the  wind  out 
of  his  sails,  ran  aboard  him. 

After  the  'Revenge'  was  entangled  with  the  'San 
I'liilip,'  four  others  boarded  her,  two  on  her  larboard 
and  two  on  her  starboard.     'l"hc  fight  thus  beginning  at 


232 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  continued  very  terrible  all 

that  eveninfj.  But  the  great  '  San  Philip,'  having  re- 
ceived the  lower  tier  of  the  '  Revenge,'  shifted  herself 
with  all  diligence  from  her  sides,  utterly  mislilcing  her 
first  entertainment.  The  Spanish  ships  were  filled  with 
soldiers,  in  some  200,  besides,  the  mariners,  in  some  500 
in  others  800.  In  ours  there  were  none  at  all,  beside, 
the  mariners,  but  the  servants  of  the  commander  and 
some  few  voluntary  gentlemen  only.  After  many  enter 
changed  vollies  of  great  ordnance  and  small  shot,  the 
.Spaniards  deliberated  to  enter  the  '  Revenge,'  and  made 
divers  attempts,  hoping  to  force  her  by  the  multitude  of 
their  armed  soldiers  and  musketeers;  but  were  still  re- 
pulsed again  and  again,  and  at  all  times  beaten  back 
into  their  own  ship  or  into  the  sea.  In  the  beginning 
of  the  fight  the  '  George  Noble,'  of  London,  having  re- 
ceived some  shot  thnnigh  her  by  the  Armadas,  fell 
under  the  lee  of  the  'Revenge,'  and  asked  Sir  Richard 
what  he  would  command  him;  but  being  one  of  the 
victuallers,  and  of  small  force,  Sir  Richard  bade  him 
save  himself  and  leave  him  to  his  fortune. 

This  last  was  a  little  touch  of  gallantry, 
which  we  should  be  glad  to  remember  with  the 
honor  due  to  the  brave  English  sailor  who 
commanded  the  '  George  Noble  ; '  but  his  name 
has  passed  away,  and  his  action  is  an  in  ine- 
vioriam,  on  which  time  has  effaced  the  writing. 
All  that  August  night  the  fight  continued,  the 
stars  rolling  over  in  their  sad  majesty,  but 
unseen  through  the  sulphurous  clouds  which 
hung  over  the  scene.  Ship  after  ship  of  the 
Spaniards  came  on  u]jon  the  '  Revenge,'  '  so 
that  never  less  than  two  mighty  galleons  w-ere 
at  her  side  and  aboard  her,'  washing  up  like 
waves  upon  a  rock,  and  falling  foiled  and  shat- 
tered back  amidst  the  roar  of  the  artillery.  Be- 
fore morning  fifteen  several  Armadas  had  as- 
sailed her,  and  all  in  vain  ;  some  had  been 
sunk  at  her  side  ;  and  the  rest,  'so  ill  approv- 
ing of  their  entertainment,  that  at  break  of  day 
they  were  far  more  willing  to  hearken  to  a  com- 
position, than  hastily  to  make  more  assaults  or 
entries.'  '  IJut  as  the  day  increased,'  says 
Raleigh,  '  so  our  men  decreased  ;  and  as  the 
light  grew  more  and  more,  by  so  much  the 
more  grew  our  discomfort,  for  none  appeared 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES. 


233 


in  sight  but  enemies,  save  one  small  ship 
called  the  "  Pilgrim,"  cominandecl  by  Jacob 
Whiddon,  who  hovered  all  night  to  see  the 
success,  but  in  the  morning,  bearing  with  the 
"  Revenge,"  was  hunted  lil-;e  a  hare  among 
many  ravenous  hounds — but  escaped.' 

All  the  powder  in  the  '  Revenge  '  was  now 
spent,  all  her  ]jikes  were  broken,  40  out  of  her 
100  men  killed,  and  a  great  number  of  the  rest 
wounded.  Sir  Richard,  though  badly  hurt 
early  in  the  battle,  never  forsook  the  deck  till 
an  hour  before  midnight;  and  was  then  shot 
through  the  body  while  his  wounds  were  being 
dressed,  and  again  in  the  head.  His  surgeon 
was  killed  while  attending  on  him  ;  the  masts 
were  lying  over  the  side,  the  rigging  cut  or 
broken,  the  upper  works  all  shot  in  pieces,  and 
the  ship  herself,  unable  to  move,  was  settling 
slowly  in  the  sea  ;  the  vast  fleet  of  Spaniards 
lying  round  her  in  a  ring,  like  dogs  round  a  dy- 
ing lion,  and  wary  of  approaching  him  in  his 
last  agony.  Sir  Richard,  seeing  that  it  was 
past  hope,  having  fought  for  fifteen  hours,  and 
'  having  by  estimation  eight  hundred  shot  of 
great  artillery  through  him,'  '  commanded  the 
master  gunner,  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  most 
resolute  man,  to  split  and  sink  the  ship,  that 
thereby  nothing  might  remain  of  glory  or  vic- 
tory to  the  Spaniards  ;  seeing  in  so  many  hours 
they  were  not  able  to  take  her,  having  had 
above  fifteen  hours'  time,  above  ten  thousand 
men,  and  fifty-three  men-of-war  to  perform  it 
withal ;  and  persuaded  the  company,  or  as  many 
as  he  could  induce,  to  yield  themselves  unto 
God  and  to  the  mercy  of  none  else  ;  but  as  they 
had,  like  valiant  resolute  men,  repulsed  so 
many  enemies,  they  should  not  now  shorten 
the  honor  of  their  nation  by  prolonging  their 
own  lives  for  a  few  hours  or  a  few  days. 

The  gunner  and  a  few  others  consented. 
But  such  BaiixovLT]  dperr}  was  more  than  could 
be  expected  of  ordinary  seamen.  They  had 
dared  do  all  which  did  become  men,  and  they 


234 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


were  not  more  than  men.  Two  Spanish  ships 
had  gone  down,  above  1500  of  their  crew  were 
killed,  and  the  Spanish  admiral  could  not  in- 
duce any  one  of  the  rest  of  his  fleet  to  board 
the  *  Revenge  '  again,  '  doubling  lest  Sir  Rich- 
ard would  have  blown  up  himself  and  them, 
knowing  his  dangerous  disposition.'  Sir  Rich- 
ard lying  disabled  below,  the  captain,  '  finding 
the  Spaniards  as  ready  to  entertain  a  composi- 
tion as  they  could  be  to  offer  it,'  gained  over 
the  majority  of  the  surviving  company  ;  and  the 
remainder  then  drawing  back  from  the  master 
gunner,  they  all,  without  further  consulting 
their  dying  commander,  surrendered  on  honor- 
able terms.  If  unequal  to  the  English  in 
action,  the  Spaniards  were  at  least  as  courteous 
in  victory.  It  is  due  to  them  to  say,  that  the 
conditions  were  faithfully  observed  ;  and  '  the 
ship  being  marvellous  unsavourie,'  Alonzo  de 
Eagon,  the  Spanish  admiral,  sent  his  boat  to 
bring  Sir  Richard  on  board  his  own  vessel. 

Sir  Richard,  whose  life  was  fast  ebbing  away, 
replied  that  'he  might  do  with  his  body  what 
he  list,  for  that  he  esteemed  it  not ; '  and  as  he 
was  carried  out  of  the  ship  he  swooned,  and 
reviving  again,  desired  the  company  to  pray 
for  him. 

The  admiral  used  him  with  all  humanity, 
'  commending  his  valour  and  worthiness,  being 
unto  them  a  rare  spectacle,  and  a  resolution 
seldom  approved.'  The  officers  of  the  fleet, 
too,  John  Higgins  tells  us,  crowded  round  to 
look  at  him  ;  and  a  new  fight  had  almost 
broken  out  between  the  Biscayans  and  the 
'  Portugals,'  each  claiming  the  honor  of  having 
boarded  the  '  Revenge.' 

In  .1  few  hours  Sir  Richard,  fcclinj^  Iiis  end  approach- 
ing, shmvcd  not  any  sign  u(  faintness,  but  spake  these 
words  in  Spanisli.  and  sai<i,  'Here  die  I,  Kichartl  Gren- 
villc,  willi  a  joyful  and  (piiet  mind,  for  that  I  liave  ended 
my  life  as  a  true  soldier  (jught  to  do  that  hath  fought  for 
his  ctjuntry,  (|ucen,  religion  and  honor.  Whereby  my 
soul  most  joyfully  dcpartelh  out  of  this  body,  and  shall 


FORGOTTEN  WORTHIES. 


235 


always  leave  behind  it  an  everlasting  fame  of  a  valiant 
and  true  soldier  that  hath  done  his  duty  as  he  was  bound 
to  do.'  When  he  had  finished  these  or  other  such  like 
words,  he  gave  U])  the  giiosl  with  great  and  stout  courage, 
and  no  nuui  could  perceive  any  signs  of  heaviness  in 
him. 

Such  was  the  fight  at  Florez.  in  that  August 
of  1591,  without  its  equal  in  such  of  tlie  annals 
of  mankind  as  the  thing  which  we  call  history 
has  preserved  to  us  ;  scarcely  equalled  by  the 
most  glorious  fate  which  the  imagination  of 
Barrere  could  invent  for  the  '  Vengeur.'  Nor 
did  the  matter  end  without  a  sequel  awful  as 
itself.  Sea  battles  have  been  often  followed 
by  storms,  and  without  a  miracle  ;  but  with  a 
miracle,  as  the  Spaniards  and  the  English  alike 
believed,  or  without  one,  as  we  moderns  would 
would  prefer  to  believe,  '  there  ensued  on  this 
action  a  tempest  so  terrible  as  was  never  seen 
or  heard  the  like  before.'  A  fleet  of  merchant- 
men joined  the  Armada  immediately  after  the 
battle,  forming  in  all  140  sail  ■  and  of  these  140, 
only  32  ever  saw  Spanish  harbor.  The  rest 
foundered,  or  were  lost  on  the  Azores.  The 
men-of-war  had  been  so  shattered  by  shot  as 
to  be  unable  to  carry  sail  ;  and  the  '  Revenge ' 
herself,  disdained  to  survive  her  commander, 
or  as  if  to  complete  his  own  last  baffled  pur- 
pose, like  Samson,  buried  herself  and  her 
200  prize  crew  under  the  rocks  of  St  Michael's. 

And  it  may  well  be  thought  and  presumed  (says  John 
Huighen)  that  it  was  no  other  than  a  just  plague  pur- 
posely sent  upon  the  Spaniards;  and  that  it  might 
be  truly  said,  the  taking  of  the  '  Kevenge  '  was  justly  re- 
venged on  them  ;  and  not  by  the  might  or  force  of  man, 
but  by  the  jjowerof  God.  As  some  of  them  oijenlysaid 
in  the  Isle  of  Terceira,  that  they  believed  verily  (lod 
would  consume  them,  and  that  he  took  part  with  the 
Lutherans  and  heretics  ....  saying  further,  that  so  soon 
as  they  had  thrown  llie  dead  body  of  the  Vice-Admiral 
Sir  Richard  Grenville  overboard,  they  verily  thought 
that  as  he  had  a  devilish  faith  and  religion,  and  there- 
fore the  devil  loved  him,  so  he  presently  sunk  into  the 
bottom  of  the  sea  and  down  into  hell,  where  he  raised 
up  all  the  devils  to  the  revenge  of  his  death,  and  that 


236 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


they  brought  so  great  a  storm  and  torments  upon  the 
Spaniards,  because  they  only  maintained  the  Catholic 
and  Romish  religion.  Such  and  the  like  blasphemies 
against  God  they  ceased  not  openly  to  utter. 


homer; 


Troy  fell  before  the  Greeks  ;  and  in  its  turn 
the  war  of  Troy  is  now  falling  before  the  critics. 
That  ten  years'  death-struggle,  in  which  the 
immortals  did  not  disdain  to  mingle — those 
massive  warriors,  with  their  grandeur  and  their 
chivalry,  have,  '  like  an  unsubstantial  pageant, 
faded  'before  the  wand  of  these  modern  en- 
chanters ;  and  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  and 
the  other  early  legends,  are  discovered  to  be  no 
more  than  the  transparent  myths  of  an  old 
cosmogony,  the  arabesques  and  frescoes  with 
which  the  imagination  of  the  Ionian  poets  set 
off  and  ornamented  the  palace  of  the  heavens, 
the  struggle  of  the  earth  with  the  seasons,  and 
the  labors  of  the  sun  through  his  twelve  signs. 

Nay,  with  Homer  himself  it  was  likely  at  one 
time  to  have  fared  no  better.  His  works,  in- 
deed, were  indestructible,  yet  if  they  could  not 
be  destroyed,  they  might  be  disorganized ;  and 
with  their  instinctive  hatred  of  facts,  the  critics 
fastened  on  the  historical  existence  of  the  poet. 
The  origin  of  the  poems  was  distributed  among 
the  clouds  of  pre-historic  imagination  ;  and — 
instead  of  a  single  inspired  Homer  for  their 
author,  w^e  were  required  to  believe  in  some 
extraordinary  spontaneous  generation,  or  in 
some  collective  genius  of  an  age  which  igno- 
rance had  personified. 

But  the  person  of  a  poet  has  been  found 
more  difficult  of  elimination  than  a  mere  fact 

*  Frazer's  Magazine,  \%t^\^ 


238  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

of  history.  Facts,  it  was  once  said,  were  stub- 
born thinjrs  ;  but  in  our  davs  we  have  chansred 
all  that ;  a  fact  under  the  knife  of  a  critic, 
splits  in  pieces,  and  is  dissected  out  of  belief 
with  incredible  readiness.  The  helpless  thing 
lies  under  his  hand  like  a  foolish  witness  in  a 
law  court,  when  browbeaten  by  an  unscrupulous 
advocate,  and  is  turned  about  and  twisted  this 
way  and  that  way,  till  in  its  distraction  it  con- 
tradicts itself,  and  bears  witness  against  itself; 
and  to  escape  from  torture,  at  last  flies  utterly 
away,  itself  half  doubting  its  own  existence. 

But  it  requires  more  cunning  weapons  to 
destroy  a  Homer ;  like  his  own  immortals,  he 
may  be  wounded,  but  he  cannot  have  the  life 
carved  out  of  him  by  the  prosaic  strokes  of 
common  men.  His  poems  have  but  to  be  dis- 
integrated to  unite  again,  so  strong  are  they  in 
the  individuality  of  their  genius.  The  single- 
ness of  their  structure — the  unitv  of  desiscn — 
the  distinctness  of  drawing  in  the  characters — 
the  inimitable  peculiarities  of  manner  in  each 
of  them,  seem  to  place  beyond  serious  question, 
after  the  worst  onslaught  of  the  Wolfian  critics, 
that  both  Iliad  and  ()dyssey,  whether  or  not 
the  work  of  the  same  mind,  are  at  least  each  of 
them  sinijlv  the  work  of  one. 

Let  them  leave  us  Homer,  however,  and  on 
the  rank  and  file  of  facts  they  may  do  their 
worst ;  we  can  be  indifferent  to,  or  even  thank- 
ful for,  what  slaughter  they  may  make.  In  the 
legends  of  the  Theogonia,  in  that  of  Zeus  and 
Cronus,  for  instance,  there  is  evidently  a  meta- 
physical allegory  ;  in  the  legends  of  Persephone, 
or  of  the  Dioscuri,  a  physical  one  ;  in  that  of 
Athene,  a  profoundly  philosophical  one  ;  and 
fused  as  the  entire  system  was  in  the  intensely 
poetical  conception  of  the  early  thinkers,  it 
would  be  impossible,  even  if  it  were  desirable, 
at  this  time  of  day,  to  disentangle  the  fibres  of 
all  these  various  elements.  Fact  and  theory, 
the  natural,  and  the  supernatural,  the  legendary 
and    the    philosoohical,   shade   off   so   impcr- 


nOMRK.  239 

ceptibly  one  into  the  other,  in  the  stories  of  the 
Olympians,  or  of  their  first  offspring,  that  we  can 
never  assure  ourselves  that  we  are  on  historic 
ground,  or  tliat,  antecotlcnt  to  the  really  historic 
age,  there  is  any  such  ground  to  be  found  any- 
where. The  old  notion,  that  the  heroes  were 
deified  men,  is  no  longer  tenable.  With  but 
few  exceptions,  we  can  trace  their  names  as 
the  names  of  the  old  gods  of  the  Hellenic  or 
Pelasgian  races  ;  and  if  they  appeared  later  in 
Imman  forms,  they  descended  from  Olympus 
to  assume  them.  Dionied  was  the  CEtolian  s!;.n- 
god  ;  Achilles  was  worshipped  in  Thessaly  long 
before  he  became  the  hero  of  the  tale  of  Troy. 
The  tragedy  of  the  house  of  Atreus,  and  the 
bloody  bath  of  Agamemnon,  as  we  are  now 
told  with  appearance  of  certainty,*  are  human- 
ized stories  of  the  physical  struggle  of  the  oppos- 
ing principles  of  life  and  death,  light  and 
darkness,  night  and  day,  winter  and  summer. 
And  let  them  be  so  ;  we  need  not  be  sorry 
to  believe  that  there  is  no  substantial  basis  for 
these  tales  of  crime.  The  history  of  mankind 
is  not  so  pure  but  that  we  can  afford  to  lose  a 
few  dark  pages  out  of  the  record.  Let  it  be 
granted  that  of  the  times  which  Homer  sung 
historically  we  know  nothing  literal  at  all — not 
any  names  of  any  kings,  or  of  any  ministers, 
wars,  intrigues,  revolutions,  crimes.  They  are 
all  gone — dead — passed  away  ;  their  vacant 
chronicles  may  be  silent  as  the  tombs  in  which 
their  bones  are  buried.  Of  such  stuff  as  that 
with  which  historians  till  their  pages  there  is 
no  trace  ;  it  is  a  blank,  vacant  as  the  annals 
of  the  Hottentot  or  of  the  Red  Indian.  Yet 
when  all  is  said,  there  remain  still  to  us  in 
Homer's  verse,  materials  richer,  perhaps,  than 
exist  for  any  period  of  the  ancient  world,  richer 
than  even  for  the  brilliant  days  of  Pericles,  or 
of  the  Caesars,  to  construct  a  history  of  another 
kind — a  history,  a  picture  not  of  the  times  of 

*  Mackay's  Progress  0/  the  luUlUct. 


240 


HISTORICAL  ESSA  YS. 


which  he  sang,  but  of  the  men  among  whom  he 
lived.  How  they  acted;  how  they  thougiit, 
talked,  and  felt  ;  what  they  made  of  this  earth, 
and  of  their  place  in  it ;  their  i^rivate  life  and 
their  public  life  ;  men  and  women  ;  masters 
and  servants ;  rich  and  poor — we  have  it  all 
delineated  in  the  marvellous  verse  of  a  poet 
who,  be  he  what  he  may,  was  in  this  respect  the 
greatest  which  the  earth  has  ever  seen.  In 
extent,  the  information  is  little  enough  ;  but  in 
the  same  sense  as  it  has  been  said  that  an  hour 
at.aan  Athenian  supper-party  would  teach  us 
more  Grecian  life  and  character  than  all  Aris- 
tophanes, Homer's  pictures  of  life  and  manners 
are  so  living,  so  distinct,  so  palpable,  that  a 
whole  prose  encyclopaedia  of  disconnected  facts 
could  give  us  nothing  like  them.  It  is  the 
marvellous  property  of  verse — one,  if  we  rightly 
consider  it,  which  would  excuse  any  superstition 
on  the  origin  of  language — that  the  metrical  and 
and  rhythmatic  arrangement  of  syllable  and 
sound  is  able  to  catch  and  express  back  to  us,  not 
stories  of  actions,  but  the  actions  themselves, 
with  all  the  feelings  which  inspire  them  ;  to 
call  up  human  action,  and  all  other  outward 
things  in  which  human  hearts  take  interest — 
to  produce  them,  or  to  reproduce  them,  with  a 
distinctness  which  shall  produce  the  same 
emotions  which  they  would  themselves  produce 
when  really  existing.  The  thing  itself  is  made 
present  before  us  by  an  exercise  of  creative 
power  as  genuine  as  that  of  Nature  herself; 
which,  perhaps,  is  but  the  same  power  man- 
ifesting itself  at  one  time  in  words,  at. another 
in  outward  phenomena.  Whatever  be  the 
cause,  the  fact  is  so.  Poetry  has  this  life-giving 
power,  and  j^rose  has  it  not ;  and  thus  the  poet  is 
the  truest  historian.  Whatever  is  properly 
valuable  in  history  the  poet  gives  us — not 
events  and  names,  but  emotion,  but  action,  but 
life.  He  is  the  heart  of  his  age,  and  his  verse 
expresses  his  age ;  and  what  matter  is  it  by 
what  name  he  describes  his  places  or  his  per- 


JIOMER.  241 

sons  ?  What  matter  is  it  what  his  own  name 
was,  while  we  have  himself,  and  while  we  have 
the  originals,  from  which  he  drew?  The  work 
and  the  life  are  all  for  which  wc  need  care,  are 
all  which  can  really  interest  us  :  the  names  are 
nothing-  Though  Phceacia  was  a  dreamland, 
or  a  symbol  of  the  Flysian  fields,  yet  Homer 
drew  his  material,  his  island,  his  palaces,  his 
harbor,  his  gardens  of  parrenial  beauty,  from 
those  fair  cities  which  lay  along  the  shores  of 
his  own  Ionia  ;  and  like  his  blind  Demodocus, 
Homer  doubless  himself  sung  those  very  hymns 
which  now  delight  us  so,  in  the  halls  of  many 
a  princely  Alcinous. 

The  prose  historian  may  give  us  facts  and 
names  ;  he  may  catalogue  the  successions,  and 
tell  us  long  stories  of  battles,  and  of  factions, 
and  of  political  intrigues  ;  he  may  draw  char- 
acters for  us,  of  the  sort  which  figure  com- 
monly in  such  features  of  human  affairs,  men 
of  the  unheroic,  unpoetic  kind — the  Cleons, 
the  Sejanuses,  the  Tiberiuses,  a  Philip  the 
Second  or  a  Louis  Quatorze,  in  whom  the  no- 
ble element  died  out  into  selfishness  and  vul- 
garity. But  great  men — and  all  men  properly 
so  called  (whatever  is  genuine  and  natural  in 
them) — lie  beyond  prose,  and  can  only  be 
really  represented  by  the  poet.  This  is  the 
reason  why  such  men  as  Alexander,  or  as  Cae- 
sar, or  as  Cromwell,  so  perplex  us  in  histories, 
because  they  and  their  actions  are  beyond  the 
scope  of  the  art  through  which  we  have  looked 
at  them.  We  compare  the  man  as  the  historian 
represents  him,  wiih  the  track  of  his  path 
through  the  world.  The  work  is  the  work  of  a 
giant ;  the  man,  stripped  of  the  vulgar  append- 
ages with  which  the  stunted  imagination  of  his 
biographer  may  have  set  him  off,  is  full  of 
meanesses  and  littlenesses,  and  is  scarcely 
greater  than  one  of  ourselves.  Prose,  that  is, 
has  attempted  something  to  which  it  is  not 
equal.  It  describes  a  figure  which  it  calls  Cae- 
sar; but  it  is  not  Caisar,  it  is  a  monster.     For 


242 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


the  same  reason,  prose  fictions,  novels,  and 
the  like,  are  worthless  for  more  than  a  mo- 
mentary purpose.  The  life  which  they  are  able 
to  represent  is  not  worth  representing.  There 
is  no  person  so  poor  in  his  own  eyes  as  not  to 
gaze  with  pleasure  into  a  looking-glass ;  and 
the  prose  age  may  value  its  own  image  in  the 
novel.  But  the  value  of  all  such  representa- 
tions is  ephemeral.  It  is  with  the  poet's  art 
as  with  the  sculptor's — sandstone  will  not 
carve  like  marble,  its  texture  is  too  loose  to  re- 
tain a  sharply  moulded  outline.  The  actions 
of  men,  if  they  are  true,  noble,  and  genuine, 
are  strong  enough  to  bear  the  form  and  bear 
the  polish  of  verse ;  if  loose  or  feeble,  they 
crumble  away  into  the  softer  undulations  of 
prose. 

What  the  life  was  whose  texture  bore  shap- 
ing into  Homer's  verse,  we  intend  to  spend 
these  pages  in  examining.  It  is,  of  course, 
properly  to  be  sought  for  in  the  poems  them- 
selves. But  we  shall  here  be  concerned  mainly 
with  features  which  in  the  original  are  rather 
secondary  than  prominent,  and  which  have  to 
be  collected  out  of  fragments,  here  a  line,  and 
there  a  line,  out  of  little  hints,  let  fall  by  Homer 
as  it  were  by  accident.  Things  too  familiar  to 
his  own  hearers  to  require  dwelling  on,  to  us, 
whose  object  is  to  make  out  just  those  very 
things  which  were  familiar,  are  of  special  and 
singular  value.  It  is  not  an  inquiry  which  will 
much  profit  us,  if  we  come  to  it  with  any  grand 
notions  of  the  '  progress  of  the  species,'  for  in 
many  ways  it  will  discourage  the  belief  in 
progress. 

We  have  fallen  into  ways  of  talking  of  the 
childhood  and  infancy  of  the  race,  as  if  no 
beards  had  grown  on  any  face  before  the  mod- 
ern Reformation  ;  and  even  people  who  know 
what  old  Athens  was  under  Pericles,  look  com- 
monly on  earlier  Greece  as  scarcely  struggling 
out  of  it8  cradle.  It  would  have  fared  so  with 
all  early  history  except  for  the  Bible.     The 


HOMER.  243 

Old  Testament  has  operated  partially  to  keep 
us  in  our  modest  senses,  and  we  can  see  some- 
thing grand  about  the  patriarchs ;  but  this  is 
owing  to  exceptional  causes,  which  do  not  apply 
to  other  literature  ;  and  in  spite  of  our  admira- 
tion of  Homer's  poetry,  we  regard  his  age,  and 
the  contemporary  periods  in  the  other  people 
of  the  earth,  as  a  kind  of  childhood  little  better 
than  barbarism.  We  look  upon  it,  at  all  events, 
as  too  far  removed  in  every  essential  of  spirit 
or  of  form  from  our  own,  to  enable  us  to  feel 
for  it  any  strong  interest  or  sympathy.  More 
or  less  we  have,  every  one  of  us,  felt  some- 
thing of  this  kind.  Homer's  men  are,  at  first 
sight,  unlike  any  men  that  we  have  ever  seen; 
and  it  is  not  without  a  shock  of  surprise  that, 
for  the  first  time,  we  fall,  in  reading  him,  across 
some  little  trait  of  humanity  which  in  form  as 
well  as  spirit  is  really  identical  with  our  own 
experience.  Then,  for  the  moment,  all  is 
changed  with  us — gleams  of  light  flash  out,  in 
which  the  drapery  becomes  transparent,  and 
we  see  the  human  form  behind  it,  and  that  en- 
tire old  world  in  the  warm  glow  of  flesh  and 
blood.  Such  is  the  effect  of  those  few  child 
scenes  of  his,  which  throw  us  back  into  our  old 
familiar  childhood.  With  all  these  years  be- 
tween us,  there  is  no  difference  between  their 
children  and  ours,  and  child  would  meet  child 
without  sense  of  strangeness  in  common  games 
and  common  pleasures. 

The  little  Ulysses,  climbing  on  the  knees  of 
his  father's  guest,  coaxing  for  a  taste  of  the 
red  wine,  and  spilling  it  as  he  starts  at  the  un- 
usual taste  ;  or  that  other  most  beautiful  picture 
of  him  running  at  Laertes's  side  in  the  garden 
at  Ithaca,  the  father  teaching  the  boy  the 
names  of  the  fruit-trees,  and  making  presents 
to  him  of  this  tree  and  of  that  tree  for  his  very 
own,  to  help  him  to  remember  what  they  were 
called;  the  partition  wall  of  three  thousand 
years  melts  away  as  we  look  back  at  scenes 
like  these ;  that  broad,  world-experienced  man 


244  niSTOKJCAl.  ESSAYS. 

was  once,  then,  such  a  little  creature  as  we  re- 
member ourselves,  and  Laertes  a  calm,  kind 
father  of  the  nineteentii  century.  Then,  as 
now,  the  children  loved  to  sport  upon  the 
shore,  and  watch  the  inrolllng  waves  ; — then 
as  now,  the  boy-architect  would  pile  the  moist 
sand  into  mimic  town  or  castle,  and  when  the 
work  was  finished,  sweep  it  away  again  in  wan- 
ton humor  with  foot  and  hand  ; — then,  as  now' 
the  little  tired  maiden  would  cling  to  her 
mother's  skirt,  and  trotting  painfully  along  be- 
side her,  look  up  wistfully  and  plead  with  moist 
eyes  to  be  carried  in  her  arms.  Nay,  and 
among  the  grown  ones,  where  time  has  not 
changed  the  occupation,  and  the  forms  of  cul- 
ture have  little  room  to  vary,  we  meet  again 
with  very  familiar  faces.  There  is  Melantho, 
the  not  over-modest  tittering  waiting-maid — 
saucy  to  her  mistress  and  the  old  housekeeper- 
and  always  running  after  the  handsome  young 
princes.  Unhappy  Melantho,  true  child  of  uni- 
versal nature  !  grievous  work  we  should  make 
with  most  households,  if  all  who  resemble  thee 
were  treated  to  as  rough  a  destiny.  And  there 
are  other  old  friends  whom  it  is  pleasant 
enough  to  recognize  at  so  long  a  distance. 
'  Certain  smooth-haired,  sleek-faced  fellows — 
insolent  where  their  lords  would  permit  them; 
inquisitive  and  pert,  living  but  to  eat  and  drink, 
and  pilfering  the  good  things,  to  convey  them 
stealthily  to  their  friends  outside  the  castle 
wall.'  The  thing  that  hath  been,  that  shall  be 
again.  When  liomer  wrote,  the  type  had  set- 
tled into  its  long-enduring  form.  '  Such  are 
they,'  he  adds,  in  his  good-natured  irony,  *  as 
the'valet  race  ever  love  to  be.' 

With  such  evidence  of  identity  among  us  all, 
it  is  worth  while  to  look  closer  at  the  old 
Greeks,  to  try  to  find  in  Homer  something  be- 
yond fine  poetry,  or  exciting  adventures  or 
battle-scenes,  or  material  for  scholarship  ;  for 
awhile  to  set  all  that  aside,  and  look  in  him  for 
the  story  of  real  living  men — set  to  pilgrimize 


HOMER. 


245 


in  the  old  way  on  the  same  old  earth — man 
such  as  we  are,  children  of  one  family,  with 
the  same  work  to  do,  to  live  the  best  life  they 
could,  and  to  save  their  souls — with  the  same 
trials,  the  same  passions,  the  same  difficulties, 
if  with  weaker  means  of  meeting  them. 

And  first  for  their  religion. 

Let  those  who  like  it,  lend  their  labor  to 
the  unravelling  the  secrets  of  the  mythologies. 
Theogonies  and  Theologies  are  not  religion  ; 
they  are  but  its  historic  dress  and  outward  or 
formal  expression,  which,  like  a  language,  may 
be  intelligible  to  those  who  see  the  inward 
meaning  in  the  sign,  but  no  more  than  con- 
fused sound  to  us  who  live  in  another  atmos- 
phere, and  have  no  means  of  transferring  our- 
selves into  the  sentiment  of  an  earlier  era.  It 
is  not  in  these  forms  of  a  day  or  of  an  age 
that  we  should  look  for  the  real  belief — the 
real  feelings  of  the  heart ;  but  in  the  natural 
expressions  v/hich  burst  out  spontaneously — 
expressions  of  opinion  on  Providence,  on  the 
relation  of  man  to  God,  on  the  eternal  laws  by 
which  this  world  is  governed.  Perhaps  we 
misuse  the  word  in  speaking  of  religion ;  we 
ought  rather  to  speak  of  piety :  piety  is  always 
simple ;  the  emotion  is  too  vast,  too  overpower- 
ing, whenever  it  is  genuine,  to  be  nice  or  fan- 
tastic in  its  form  ;  and  leaving  philosophies  and 
cosmogonies  to  shape  themselves  in  myth  and 
legend,  it  speaks  itself  out  with  a  calm  and 
humble  clearness.  We  may  trifle  with  our 
own  discoveries,  and  hand  them  over  to  the 
fancy  or  the  imagination  for  elaborate  decora- 
tion. We  may  shroud  over  supposed  mysteries 
under  an  enigmatic  veil,  and  adapt  the  degrees 
of  initiation  to  the  capacities  of  our  pupils  ; 
but  before  the  vast  facts  of  God  and  Provi- 
dence, the  difference  between  man  and  man 
dwarfs  into  nothing.  They  are  no  discoveries 
of  our  own  with  which  we  can  meddle,  but 
revelations  of  the  Infinite,  which,  like  the  sun- 
light, shed  themselves  on    all  alike,  wise  and 


246  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

unwise,  good  and  evil,  and  they  claim  and  they 
permit  no  other  acknowledgment  from  us  than 
the  simple  obedience  of  our  lives,  and  the 
plainest  confession  of  our  lips. 

Such  confessions,  except  in  David's  Psalms, 
we  shall  not  anywhere  find  more  natural  or 
unaffected  than  in  Homer — most  definite,  vet 
never  elaborate — as  far  as  may  be  from  any 
complimenting  of  Providence,  yet  expressing 
the  most  unquestioning  conviction.  We  shall 
not  often  remember  them  when  we  set  about 
religion  as  a  business  ;  but  when  the  occasions 
of  life  stir  the  feelings  in  us  on  which  religion 
itself  reposes,  if  we  were  as  familiar  with  the 
Iliad  as  with  the  Psalms,  the  words  of  the  old 
Ionian  singer  would  leap  as  naturally  to  our 
lips  as  those  of  the  Israelite  king. 

Zeus  is  not  always  the  questionable  son  of 
Cronus,  nor  the  gods  always  the  mythologic 
Olympians.  Generally,  it  is  true,  they  appear 
as  a  larger  order  of  subject  beings — beings  like 
men,  and  subject  to  a  higher  control — in  a 
position  closely  resembling  that  of  Milton's 
angels,  and  liable  like  them  to  passion  and  to 
error.  Put  at  times,  the  father  of  gods  and 
men  is  the  Infinite  and  Eternal  Ruler — the 
living  Providence  of  the  world — and  the  les- 
sergods  are  the  immortal  administrators  of  his 
Divine  will  throughout  the  lower  creation. 
Forever  at  the  head  of  the  universe  there  is  an 
awful  spiritual  power;  when  Zeus  appears  with 
a  distinct  and  positive  personality,  he  is  him- 
self subordinate  to  an  authority  which  else- 
where is  one  with  himself.  Wherever  either 
he  or  the  other  gods  are  made  susceptible  of 
emotion,  the  Invisible  is  beyond  and  above 
them.  Wlien  Zeus  is  the  personal  father  of 
Sarpedon,  and  his  private  love  conflicts  with 
the  law  of  the  eternal  order,  though  he  has 
power  to  set  aside  the  law,  lie  dares  not  break 
it ;  but  in  the  midst  of  his  immortality,  and  on 
his  own  awful  throne,  lie  weeps  tears  of  blood 
in  ineffectual  sorrow  for  his  dying  child.     And 


HOMER.  247 

again,  there  is  a  power  supreme  both  over  Zeus 
and  over  Poseidon,  of  which  Iris  reminds  the 
latter,  when  she  is  sent  to  rebuke  him  for  his 
disobedience  to  his  brother.  It  is  a  law,  she 
says,  that  the  younger  shall  obey  the  elder, 
and  the  Erinnys  will  revenge  its  breach  even 
on  a  god. 

But  descending  from  the  more  difficult 
Pantheon  among  mankind,  the  Divine  law  of 
justice  is  conceived  as  clearly  as  we  in  this  day 
can  conceive  it.  The  supreme  power  is  the 
same  immortal  love  of  justice  and  the  same 
hater  of  iniquity ;  and  justice  means  what  we 
mean  by  justice,  and  iniquity  what  we  mean 
by  iniquity.  There  is  no  diffidence,  no  scep- 
ticism on  this  matter ;  the  moral  law  is  as  sure 
as  day  and  night,  summer  and  winter.  Thus 
in  the  sixteenth  Iliad — 

'When  in  the  market-place  men  deal  un- 
justly, and  the  rulers  decree  crooked  judgment, 
not  regarding  the  fear  of  God,'  God  sends  the 
storm,  and  the  earthquake,  and  the  tempests, 
as  the  executors  of  his  vengeance. 

Again,  Ulysses  says-^ 

'  God  looks  upon  the  children  of  men,  and 
punishes  the  wrong  doer.' 

And  Eumaius — 

'  The  gods  love  not  violence  and  wrong  ;  but 
the  man  whose  ways  are  righteous,  him  they 
honor.' 

Even  when  as  mere  Olympians  they  put  off 
their  celestial  nature,  and  mix  in  earthly  strife, 
and  are  thus  laid  open  to  earthly  suffering,  a 
mystery  still  hangs  about  thelii ;  Diomed,  even 
while  he  crosses  the  path  of  Ares,  feels  all  the 
while  '  that  they  are  short-lived  who  contend 
with  the  Immortals.'  Ajax  boasts  that  he  will 
save  himself  in  spite  of  heaven,  and  immedi- 
ately the  wave  dashes  him  upon  the  rocks. 
One  light  word  escaped  Ulysses  in  the  excite- 
ment of  his  escape  from  the  Cyclops  which 
nine  years  of  suffering  hardly  expiated. 

The  same  spirit  which  teaches    Christians 


248  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

that  those  who  have  no  earthly  friend  have 
specially  a  friend  above  to  care  for  and  to 
avenge  them,  taught  the  lonians  a  proverb 
which  appears  again  and  again  in  Homer,  that 
the  stranger  and  the  poor  man  are  the  patri- 
mony of  God  ;  and  it  taught  them,  also,  that 
sometimes  men  entertained  the  immortals  un- 
awares. It  was  a  faith,  too,  which  was  more 
than  words  with  them  ;  for  we  hear  of  no 
vagrant  acts  or  alien  acts,  and  it  was  sacrilege 
to  turn  away  from  the  gate  whoever  asked  its 
hospitality.  Times  are  changed.  The  world  was 
not  so  crowded  as  it  is  now,  and  perhaps  rogues 
were  less  abundant  ;  but  at  any  rate  those  an- 
tique Greeks  did  what  they  said.  We  say 
what  they  said,  while  in  the  same  breath  we 
say,  too,  that  it  is  impossible  to  do  it. 

In  every  way,  the  dependence  of  man  on  a 
special  heavenly  Providence  was  a  matter  of 
sure  and  certain  conviction  with  them.  Tele- 
machus  appeals  to  the  belief  in  the  Council  at 
Ithaca.  He  questions  it  at  Pylos,  and  is  at 
once  rebuked  by  Athene.  Both  in  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  to  live  justly  is  the  steady  service 
which  the  gods  require,  and  their  favor  as 
surely  follows  when  that  service  is  paid,  as  a 
Nemesis  sooner  or  later  follows  surely,  too.  on 
the  evil-doers. 

But  without  multiplying  evidence,  as  we 
easily  might,  from  every  part  of  both  Iliad  and 
Odyssey,  the  sceptical  and  the  believing  forms 
of  thought  and  feeling  on  this  very  subject  are 
made  points  of  cjramatic  contrast,  to  show  off 
the  opposition  of  two  separate  characters  ;  and 
this  is  clear  proof  that  such  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings must  have  been  familiar  to  Homer's 
hearers  :  if  it  were  not  so,  his  characters  would 
have  been  without  interest  to  his  age — they 
would  have  been  individual,  and  not  universal ; 
and  no  expenditure  of  intellect,  or  passion, 
would  have  made  men  care  to  listen  to  him. 
The  two  persons  wlio  throughout  the  Iliad 
stand  out  in  relief  in  contrast  to  each  other  are 


HOMER.  249 

of  course,  Hector  and  Achilles ;  and  faith  in 
God  (as  distinct  from  a  mere  recognition  of 
him)  is  as  directly  the  characteristic  of  Hector 
as  in  Achilles  it  is  entirely  absent.  Both  char- 
acters are  heroic,  but  the  heroism  in  them 
springs  from  opposite  sources.  Both  are  heroic, 
because  both  are  strong ;  but  the  strength  of 
one  is  in  himself,  and  the  strength  of  the  other 
is  in  his  faith.  Hector  is  a  patriot;  Achilles 
does  not  know  what  patriotism  means  ; — Hector 
is  full  of  tenderness  and  human  affection ; 
Achilles  is  self-enveloped.  Even  his  love  for 
Patroclus  is  not  pure,  for  Patroclus  is  as  the 
moon  to  the  sun  of  Achilles,  and  Achilles  sees 
his  own  glory  reflected  on  his  friend.  They 
have  both  a  forecast  of  their  fate  ;  but  Hector, 
in  his  great  brave  way,  scoffs  at  omens  ;  he 
knows  that  there  is  a  sj^ecial  providence  in  the 
fall  of  a  sparrow,  and  defies  augury.  To  do 
his  duty  is  the  only  omen  for  which  Hector 
cares  ;  and  if  death  must  be,  he  can  welcome 
it  like  a  gallant  man,  if  it  find  him  fighting  for 
his  country.  Achilles  is  moody,  speculative, 
and  subjective  ;  he  is  too  proud  to  attempt  an 
ineffectual  resistance  to  what  he  knows  to  be 
inevitable,  but  he  alternately  murmurs  at  it  and 
scorns  it.  Till  his  passion  is  stirred  by  his 
friend's  death,  he  seems  equally  to  disdain  the 
greatness  of  life  and  the  littleness  of  it;  the 
glories  of  a  hero  are  not  worth  dying  for ;  and 
like  Solomon,  and  almost  in  Solomon's  words, 
he  complains  that  there  is  one  event  to  all — 

'Ev  de  IT}  Ti/17)  ^  jitv  Kwcdc  jjh  koX  iadh'c. 

To  gratify  his  own  spleen,  he  will  accept  an 
inglorious  age  in  Thessaly,  in  exchange  for  a 
hero  immortality;  as  again  in  the  end  it  is  but 
to  gratify  his  own  wounded  pride  that  he  goes 
out  to  brav'e  a  fate  which  he  scorns  while  he 
knows  that-it  will  subdue  him.  Thus,  Achilles 
is  the  hero  of  the  stern  human,  seir-siifficing 
spirit,  which  does  not  deny  or  question  destiny, 


250  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

but  seeing  nothing  in  it  except  a  cold,  iron  law, 
meets  force  with  force,  and  holds  up  against 
it  an  unbroken,  unbending  will.  Human  nat- 
ure is  at  its  best  but  a  miserable  business  to 
him  ;  death  and  sorrow  are  its  inevitable  lot. 
As  a  brave  man,  he  will  not  fear  such  things, 
but  he  will  not  pretend  to  regard  them  as  any- 
thing but  detestable ;  and  he  comforts  the  old, 
weeping  king  of  Troy,  whose  age  he  was  him- 
self bringing  down  to  the  grave  in  sorrow, 
with  philosophic  meditations  on  the  vanity  of 
all  things,  and  a  picture  of  Zeus  mixing  the 
elements  of  life  out  of  the  two  urns  of  good 
and  evil. 

Turn  to  Hector,  and  we  pass  from  shadow 
into  sunliglit.  Achilles  is  all  self,  Hector  all 
self-forgetfulness;  Achilles  all  pride.  Hector  all 
modesty.  The  confidence  of  Achilles  is  in 
himself  and  in  his  own  arm  ;  Hector  knows 
(and  the  strongest  expressions  of  the  kind  in 
all  the  Iliad  are  placed  pointedly  in  Hector's 
mouth)  that  there  is  no  strength  except  from 
above.  '  God's  will,'  he  says,  '  is  over  all ;  he 
makes  the  strong  inan  to  fear,  and  gives  the 
victory  to  the  weak,  if  it  shall  please  him. 
And  at  last  when  he  meets  Achilles,  he  an- 
swers his  bitter  words,  not  with  a  defiance, 
but  calmly  saying,  *  I  know  that  thou  art 
mighty,  and  that  my  strength  is  far  less  than 
thine  ;  but  these  things  lie  in  the  will  of  the 
gods,  and  I,  though  weaker  far  than  thou,  may 
yet  take  thy  life  from  thee,  if  the  Immortals 
choose  to  have  it  so.' 

So  far  then,  on  the  general  fact  of  Divine 
Providence  the  feeling  of  Homer,  and  there- 
fore of  his  countrymen,  is  distinct.  Both  the 
great  pocmsbearinghis  name  speak  in  the  same 
language.  But  beyond  the  general  fact,  many 
questions  rise  in  the  application  of  the  creed, 
and  on  one  of  these  (it  is  among  several  re- 
markable differences  which  seem  tp  make  the 
Odyssey  as  of  a  later  age)  there  is  a  very  sin- 
gular discrepancy.     In  the  Iliad,  the  life  of  a 


HOMER. 


251 


man  on  this  side  the  grave  is  enough  for  the 
completion  of  his  destiny — for  his  reward, 
if  he  lives  nobly;  for  his  punishment  if  he 
be  base  or  wicked.  Without  repinings  or 
scepticisms  at  the  apparent  successes  of  bad 
men,  the  poet  is  contented  with  what  he  finds 
accepting  cheerfully  the  facts  of  life  as  they 
are  ;  it  never  seems  to  occur  to  him  as  seriously 
possible  that  a  bad  man  could  succeed  or  a 
good  one  fail ;  and  as  the  ways  of  Providence, 
therefore,  required  no  vindicating,  neither  his 
imagination  nor  his  curiosity  tempts  him  into 
penetrating  the  future.  The  house  of  Hades 
is  the  long  home  to  which  men  go  when  dis- 
missed out  of  their  bodies  ;  but  it  is  a  dim, 
shadowy  place,  of  which  we  see  nothing,  and 
concerning  which  iio  conjectures  are  ventured. 
Achilles,  in  his  passion  over  Patroclus,  cries 
out,  that  although  the  dead  forget  the  dead  irt 
the  halls  of  the  departed,  yet  that  he  will  re- 
member his  friend  ;  and  through  the  Iliad  there 
is  nothing  clearer  than  these  vagu6  wOrds  to 
show  with  what  hopes  or  fears  the  poet  looked 
forward  to  death.  So  far,  therefore,  his  faith 
may  seem  imperfect ;  yet  perhaps,  not  the  less 
noble  because  imperfect  ;  religious  men  in 
general  are  too  well  contented  with  the  jyrorti- 
ise  of  a  future  life,  as  of  a  scene  where  the 
seeming  shortcomings  of  the  Divine  adminis* 
tration  will  be  carried  out  with  larger  equity. 
But  whether  imperfect  or  not,  or  whatever  be 
the  account  of  the  omission,  the  theory  o£ 
Hades  in  the  Odyssey  is  developed  into  far 
greater  distinctness  ;  the  future  is  still,  indeed 
shadowy,  but  it  is  no  longer  uncertain  :  there 
is  a  dreadful  prison-house,  with  the  Judge  upon 
his  throne — and  the  darker  criminals  are  over- 
taken by  the  vengeance  which  was  delayed  in 
life.  The  tliin  phantoms  of  the  great  ones  of 
the  past  flit  to  and  fro,  mourning  wearily  for 
their  lost  mortality,  and  feeding  on  its  memory. 
And  more  than  this,  as  if  it  were  beginning 
to  be  felt  that  something  more  was   wanted 


252 


HISTORICAL  ESS  A  YS. 


after  all  to  satisfy  us  with  the  completeness  of 
the  Divine  rule,  we  have  a  glimpse — it  is  but 
one,  but  it  is  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  falling  in 
upon  the  darkness  of  the  grave — '  of  the  far-off 
Elysian  fields  where  dwells  Rhadamanthus  with 
the  golden  hair,  where  life  is  ever  sweet,  and 
sorrow  is  not,  nor  winter,  nor  any  rain  or  storm, 
and  the  never-dying  zephyrs  blow  soft  and 
cool  from  off  the  ocean.' 

However  vague  the  filling  up  of  such  a  pic- 
ture, the  outline  is  correct  to  the  best  which 
has  been  revealed  even  in  Christianity,  and  it 
speaks  nobly  for  the  people  among  whom,  even 
in  germ,  such  ideas  could  root  themselves. 
But  think  what  we  will  of  their  notions  of  the 
future,  the  old  Greek  faith,  considered  as  a 
practical  and  not  a  theological  system,  is  truly 
admirable,  clear,  rational,  and  moral  ;  if  it 
does  not  profess  to  deal  with  the  mysteries  of 
evil  in  the  heart,  it  is  prompt  and  stern  with 
them  in  their  darker  outward  manifestations, 
and,  as  far  as  it  goes,  as  a  guide  in  the  common 
daily  business  of  life,  it  scarcely  leaves  any- 
thing unsaid. 

How  far  it  went  we  shall  see  in  the  details 
of  the  life  itself,  the  most  important  of  which 
in  the  eyes  of  a  modern  will  be  the  social  or- 
ganization ;  and  when  he  looks  for  organiza- 
tion, he  will  be  at  once  at  a  loss,  for  he  will 
find  the  fact  of  government  yet  without  defined 
form  ; — he  will  find  law,  but  without  a  public 
sword  to  enforce  it  ;  and  a  '  social  machine' 
moving  without  friction  under  the  easy  control 
of  opinion.  There  are  no  wars  of  classes,  no 
politics,  no  opposition  of  interests,  a  sacred 
feeling  of  the  will  of  the  gods  keeping  every 
one  in  his  proper  subordination.  It  was  a 
sacred  duty  that  the  younger  should  obey  the 
elder,  that  the  servant  should  obey  his  master, 
that  property  should  be  respected  ;  in  war, 
that  the  leader  should  be  obeyed  without  ques- 
ti(jning;  in  peace,  that  public  questions  should 
be  brought  before  the  assembly  of  the  people, 


HOMER. 


253 


and  settled  quietly  as  the  Council  determined. 
In  this  assembly  the  prince  presided,  and  be- 
yond this  presidency  his  authority  at  home 
does  not  seem  to  have  extended.  Of  course 
there  was  no  millennium  in  Ionia,  and  men's 
passions  were  pretty  much  what  they  are  now. 
Without  any  organized  means  of  repressing 
crime  when  it  did  appear,  the  people  were  ex- 
posed to,  and  often  suffered  under,  extreme 
forms  of  violence — violence  such  as  that  of  the 
suitors  at  Ithaca,  or  of  ^gisthus  at  Argos.  On 
the  other  hand,  what  a  state  of  cultivation  it 
implies,  what  peace  and  comfort  in  all  classes, 
when  society  could  hold  together  for  a  day 
with  no  more  complete  defence  !  And,  more- 
over, there  are  disadvantages  in  elaborate 
police  systems.  Self-reliance  is  one  of  the 
highest  virtues  in  which  this  world  is  intended 
to  discipline  us  ;  and  to  depend  upon  ourselves 
even  for  our  own  personal  safety  is  a  large 
element  in  moral  training. 

But  not  to  dwell  on  this,  and  to  pass  to  the 
way  in  which  the  men  of  those  days  employed 
themselves; . 

Our  first  boy's  feeling  with  the  Iliad  is,  that 
Homer  is  pre-eminently  a  poet  of  war  ;  that 
battles  were  his  own  passion,  and  tales  of 
battles  the  delight  of  his  listeners.  His  heroes 
appear  like  a  great  fighting  aristocracy,  such  as 
the  after  Spartans  were,  Homer  himself  like 
another  TyrtJEus,  and  the  poorer  occupations 
of  life  too  menial  for  their  notice  or  for  his. 
They  seem  to  live  for  glory — the  one  glory 
worth  caring  for  only  to  be  won  upon  the  battle- 
field, and  their  exploits  the  one  worthy  theme 
of  the  poet's  song.  This  is  our  boyish  impres- 
sion, and  like  other  such,  it  is  very  different 
from  the  truth.  If  war  had  been  a  passion 
with  the  lonians,  as  it  was  with  the  Teutons 
and  the  Norsemen,  the  god  of  battles  would 
have  been  supreme  in  the  Pantheon  ;  and 
Zeus  would  scarcely  have  called  Ares  the  most 
hateful   spirit   in  Olympus — most    hateful,    be- 


254 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


cause  of  his  delight  in  war  and  carnage.  Mr. 
Carlyle  looks  forward  to  a  chivalry  of  labor. 
He  rather  wishes  than  expects  that  a  time  may 
come  when  the  campaign  of  industry  against 
anarchic  nature  may  gather  into  it  those  feel- 
ings of  gallantry  and  nobleness  which  have 
found  their  vent  hitherto  in  fighting  only.  The 
modern  man's  work,  Mr.  Carlyle  says,  is  no 
longer  to  splinter  lances  or  break  down  walls, 
but  to  break  soil,  to  build  barns  and  factories, 
and  to  find  a  high  employment  for  himself  in 
what  hitherto  has  been  despised  as  degrading. 
How  to  elevate  labor — how  to  make  it  beauti- 
ful— how  to  enlist  the  spirit  in  it  (for  in  no 
other  way  can  it  be  made  humanly  profitable), 
that  is  fhe  problem  which  he  looks  wistfully 
to  the  future  to  solve  for  us.  He  may  look  to 
the  past  as  well  as  to  the  future  ;  in  the  old 
Ionia  he  will  find  all  for  which  he  wishes.  The 
wise  Ulysses  built  his  own  house,  and  carved 
his  own  bed.  Princes  killed  and  cooked  their 
ow'n  food.  It  was  a  holy  work  with  them — 
their  way  of  saying  grace  for  it  ;  for  they 
offered  the  animal  in  his  death  to  the  gods,  and 
they  were  not  butchers,  but  sacrificing  priests. 
Even  a  keeper  of  swine  is  called  noble,  and 
fights  like  a  hero  ;  and  the  young  princess  of 
Phoecia  —  the  loveliest  and  gracefullest  of 
Homer's  women — drove  the  clothes-cart  and 
washed  limcn  with  her  own  beautiful  hands. 
Not  only  was  labor  free — for  so  it  was  among 
the  early  Romans  ;  or  honorable,  so  it  was 
among  the  Israelites, — but  it  was  beautiful — 
beautiful  in  the  artist's  sense,  as  perhaps  else- 
where it  has  never  been.  In  later  Greece — in 
what  we  call  the  glorious  period — toil  had 
gathered  about  it  its  modern  crust  of  supposed 
baseness — it  was  left  to  slaves ;  and  wise  men, 
in  their  philosophic  lecture-room,  spoke  of  it 
as  unworthy  of  the  higher  specimens  of  culti- 
vsted  humanity. 

]Jut  Homer  finds,  in  its  most  homely  forms, 
fit  illustrations  for  the  most  glorious  achieve. 


IIOMEK. 


255 


ments  of  his  heroes  ;  and  in  every  page  we  find 
in  simile  or  metaphor,  some  common  scene  of 
daily  life  worked  out  with  elaborate  beauty. 
What  the  pojDular  poet  chooses  for  his  illustra- 
tions are  as  good  a  measure  as  we  can  have  of 
the  popular  feeling,  and  the  images  which  he 
suggests  are,  of  course,  what  he  knows  his 
hearers  will  be  pleased  to  dwell  upon.  There 
is  much  to  be  said  about  this,  and  we  shall  re- 
turn to  it  presently  ;  in  the  mean  time,  we  must 
not  build  on  indirect  evidence.  The  designs 
on  the  shield  of  Achilles  are,  together,  a  com- 
plete picture  of  Homer's  microcosm.  Homer 
surely  never  thought  inglorious  or  ignoble  what 
the  immortal  art  of  Hephaistos  condescended 
to  imitate. 

The  first  groups  of  figures  point  a  contrast 
which  is  obviously  intentional ;  and  the  signifi- 
cance becomes'sadly  earnest  when  we  remem- 
ber who  it  was  that  was  to  bear  the  shield. 
The  moral  is  a  very  modern  one,  and  the  pic- 
ture might  be  called  by  the  modern  name  of 
Peace  and  War.  There  are  two  cities,  embody- 
ing in  their  condition  the  two  ideas.  In  one, 
a  happy  wedding  is  going  forward  ;  the  pomp 
of  the  hymeneal  procession  is  passing  along 
the  streets  ;  the  air  is  full  of  music,  and  the 
women  are  standing  at  their  doors  to  gaze. 
The  other  is  in  the  terrors  of  a  siege  ;  the  hos- 
tile armies  glitter  under  the  walls,  the  women 
and  children  press  into  the  defences,  and  crowd 
to  the  battlements.  In  the  first  city  a  quarrel 
rises,  and  wrong  is  made  right,  not  by  violence 
and  fresh  wrong,  but  by  the  majesty  of  law 
and  order.  The  heads  of  the  families  are  sit- 
ting gravely  in  the  market-iDlace,  the  cause  is 
heard,  the  compensation  set,  the  claim  award- 
ed. Under  the  walls  of  the  other  city  an  am- 
bush lies,  like  a  wild  beast  on  the  watch  for  its 
prey.  The  unsuspecting  herdsmen  pass  on 
with  their  flocks  to  the  waterside  ;  the  spoilers 
spring  from  their  hiding-place,  and  all  is  strife, 
and   death,    and   horror,    and   confusion.      If 


256  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

there  were  other  war  scenes  on  the  shield,  it 
might  be  doubted  whether  Homer  intended  so 
strong  a  contrast  as  he  executed ;  but  fighting 
for  its  own  salce  was  evidently  held  in  slight  re- 
spect with  him.  The  forms  of  life  which  he 
thought  really  beautiful  follow  in  a  series  of 
exquisite  Rubens-like  pictures  :  harvest  scenes 
and  village  festivals,  the  ploughing  and  the 
vintage,  or  the  lion-hunt  on  the  reedy  margin 
of  the  river ;  and  he  describes  them  with  a 
serene,  sunny  enjoyment  which  no  other  old 
world  art  or  poetry  gives  us  anything  in  the 
least  resembling.  Even  we  ourselves,  in  our 
own  pastorals,  are  struggling  with  but  half  suc- 
cess, after  what  Homer  entirely  possessed. 
What  a  majesty  he  has  thrown  into  his  harvest 
scene  !  The  yellow  corn  falling,  the  boys  fol- 
lowing to  gather  up  the  large  armsfull  as  they 
drop  behind  the  reapers ;  in  the  distance  a 
banquet  preparing  under  the  trees ;  in  the 
centre,  in  the  midst  of  his  workmen,  the  king 
sitting  in  mellow  silence,  sceptre  in  hand,  look- 
ing on  with  gladdened  heart.  Again  we  see 
the  ploughman,  unlike  what  are  to  be  seen  in 
our  corn-grounds,  turning  their  teams  at  the 
end  of  the  furrow,  and  attendants  standing 
ready  with  the  winecup,  to  hand  to  them  as 
they  pass.  Homer  had  seen  these  things,  or 
he  would  not  have  sung  of  them ;  and  princes 
and  nobles  might  have  shared  such  labor  with- 
out shame,  when  kings  presided  over  it,  and 
and  gods  designed  it,  and  the  divine  Achilles 
bore  its  image  among  his  insignia  in  the 
field. 

Analogous  to  this,  and  as  part  of  the  same 
feeling,  is  that  intense  enjoyment  of  natural 
scenery,  so  keen  in  Homer,  and  of  which  the 
Athenian  poets  show  not  a  trace  ;  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  that  night  landscape  by  the  sea, 
finished  off  in  a  few  lines  only,  but  so  exqui- 
sitely perfect !  The  broad  moon,  gleaming 
through  the  mist  as  it  parts  suddenly  from  off 
the  sky  ■  the   crags   and   headlands,  and   soft 


HOMER. 


257 


wooded  slopes,  shining  out  in  the  silver  light, 
and  earth  and  sea  transformed  into  fairy  land. 

We  spoke  of  Homer's  similes  as  illustra- 
tive of  the  Ionic  feeling  about  war.  War,  of 
course,  was  glorious  to  him — but  war  in  a 
glorious  cause.  Wars  there  were — wars  in 
plenty,  as  there  have  been  since,  and  as  it  is 
like  there  will  be  for  some  time  to  come  ;  and 
a  just  war,  of  all  human  employments,  is  the 
one  which  most  calls  out  whatever  nobleness 
there  is  in  man.  It  was  the  thing  itself,  the 
actual  fighting  and  killing,  as  apart  from  the 
heroism  for  which  it  makes  opportunities,  for 
which  we  said  that  he  showed  no  taste.  His 
manner  shows  that  he  felt  like  a  cultivated 
man,  and  not  like  a  savage.  His  spirit  stirs  in 
him  as  he  goes  out  with  his  hero  to  the  battle  ; 
but  there  is  no  drunken  delight  in  blood  ;  we 
never  hear  of  warriors  as  in  that  grim  Hall  of 
the  Nibelungen,  quenching  their  thirst  in  the 
red  stream  ;  never  anything  of  that  fierce  ex' 
ultation  in  carnage  with  which  the  war  poetry 
of  so  many  nations,  late  and  old  is  crimsoned. 
Everything,  on  the  contrary,  is  contrived  so 
as  to  soften  the  merely  horrible,  and  fix  our 
interest  only  on  what  is  grand  or  beautiful. 
We  are  never  left  to  dwell  long  together 
on  scenes  of  death,  and  when  the  battle  is  at 
its  fiercest,  our  minds  are  called  ofif  by  the 
rapid  introduction  (either  by  simile  or  some 
softer  turn  of  human  feeling)  of  other  as- 
sociations, not  contrived  as  an  inferior  artist 
would  contrive,  to  deepen  our  emotions,  but  to 
soften  and  relieve  them. 

Two  warriors  meet,  and  exchange  their  high 
words  of  defiance  ;  we  hear  the  grinding  of  the 
spear-head,  as  it  pierces  shield  and  breast-plate, 
and  the  crash  of  the  armor,  as  this  or  that 
hero  falls.  But  at  once,  instead  of  being  left 
at  his  side  to  see  him  bleed,  we  are  summoned 
away  to  the  soft  water  meadow,  the  lazy  river, 
the  tall  poplar,  now  waving  its  branches  against 
the  sky,  now  lying  its  length  along  in  the  grass 


2s8 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


beside  the  water,  and  the  wood-cutter  with 
jjeaceful  industry  laboring  and  lopping  at  it. 
In  the  thick  of  the  universal  melee,  when  the 
stones  and  arrows  are  raining  on  the  combat* 
ants,  and  some  furious  hailstorm  is  the  slightest 
illustration  with  which  we  should  expect  him 
to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  human  tempest,  so 
sure  Homer  is  that  he  has  painted  the  thing 
itself  in  its  own  intense  reality,  that  his  simile 
is  the  stillest  phenomenon  in  all  nature — a 
stillness  of  activity,  infinitely  expressive  of  the 
density  of  the  shower  of  missiles,  yet  falling 
like  oil  on  water  on  the  ruffled  picture  of  the 
battle  ;  the  snow  descending  in  the  still  air, 
covering  first  hills,  then  plains  and  fields  and 
farmsteads  ;  covering  the  rocks  down  to  the 
very  water's  edge,  and  clogging  the  waves  as 
they  roll  in.  Again  in  that  fearful  death- 
wrestle  at  the  Grecian  wall,  when  gates  and 
battlements  are  sprinkled  over  with  blood,  and 
neither  Greeks  nor  Trojans  can  force  their  way 
against  the  other,  we  have,  first,  as  an  image 
of  the  fight  itself,  two  men  in  the  field,  with 
measuring  rods,  disputing  over  a  land  bound- 
ary ;  and  for  the  equipoise  of  the  two  armies, 
the  softest  of  all  home  scenes,  a  poor  working 
woman  weighing  out  her  wool,  before  weaving 
it,  to  earn  a  scanty  subsistence  for  herself  and 
for  her  children. 

Of  course  the  similes  are  not  all  of  this  kind  ; 
it  would  be  monotonous  if  they  were  ;  but  they 
occur  often  enough  to  mark  their  meaning.  In 
the  direct  narrative,  too,  we  see  the  same  ten- 
dency. Sarpedon  struck  through  the  thigh  is 
borne  off  the  field,  the  long  spear  trailing  from 
the  wound,  and  there  is  too  much  haste  to 
draw  it  out.  Hector  flies  past  him  and  has  no 
time  to  speak  ;  all  is  dust,  hurry,  and  confu- 
sion. Even  Homer  can  only  pause  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  in  three  lines  he  lays  the  wounded 
hero  under  a  tree,  he  brings  a  dear  friend  to 
his  side,  and  we  refresh  ourselves  in  a  beauti- 
ful  scene,  when   the  lance   is  taken  out  and 


HOMER.  259 

Sarpcdon  faints,  and  comes  slowly  back  to 
life,  with  the  cool  air  fanning  him.  We  may 
look  in  vain  through  the  Nibelungen  Lied  for 
anything  like  this.  The  Swabian  poet  can  be 
tender  before  the  battle,  but  in  the  battle  itself 
his  barbaric  nature  is  too  strong  for  him,  and 
he  scents  nothing  but  blood.  In  the  Iliad,  on 
the  contrary,  the  very  battles  of  the  gods, 
grand  and  awful  as  they  are,  relieve  rather 
than  increase  the  human  horror.  In  the  mag- 
nificent scene,  where  Achilles,  weary  with 
slaughter,  pauses  on  the  bank  of  the  Scaman- 
der,  and  the  angry  river  god,  whose  course  is 
checked  by  the  bodies  of  the  slain,  swells  up 
to  revenge  them  and  destroy  him,  the  natural 
and  the  supernatural  are  so  strangely  blended, 
that  when  Poseidon  lights  the  forest,  and  god 
meets  god  and  element  meets  element,  the 
convulsion  is  too  tremendous  to  enhance  the 
fierceness  of  Achilles  ;  it  concentrates  the  in- 
terest on  itself,  and  Achilles  and  Hector,  fly- 
ing Trojan  and  pursuing  Greek,  for  the  time 
melt  out  and  are  forgotten. 

We  do  not  forget  that  there  is  nothing  of 
this  kind,  no  relief,  no  softening,  in  the  great 
scene  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Odyssey.  All 
is  stern  enough  and  terrible  enough  there; 
more  terrible,  if  possible,  because  more  dis- 
tinct, than  its  modern  counterpart  in  Criem- 
hildas  Hall.  But  there  is  an  obvious  reason 
for  this,  and  it  does  not  make  against  what  we 
have  been  saying.  It  does  not  delight  in 
slaughter,  but  it  is  the  stern  justice  of  revenge 
which  we  have  here  ;  not,  as  in  the  Iliad,  hero 
meeting  hero,  but  the  long  crime  receiving  at 
last  its  Divine  punishment ;  the  breaking  of  the 
one  storm,  which  from  the  beginning  has  been 
slowly  and  awfully  gathering. 

With  Homer's  treatment  of  a  battle-field,  and 
as  illustrating  the  conclusion  which  we  argue 
from  it,  we  are  attempted  to  draw  parallels 
from  two  modern  poets — one  a  German,  who 
was  taken  away  in  the  morning  of  his  life ;  the 


f 

260  HISTORICAL  ESSA  YS. 

Other,  the  most  gifted  of  modern  Englishmen. 
Each  of  those  two  has  attempted  the  same  sub- 
ject, and  the  treatment  in  each  case  embodies, 
in  a  similar  manner,  modern  ways  of  thinking 
about  it. 

The  first  is  from  the  '  Albigenses'  of  young 
Lenau,  who  has  since  died  lunatic,  we  have 
heard,  as  he  was  not  unlikely  to  have  died  with 
such  thoughts  in  him.  It  is  the  eve  which  fol- 
lowed one  of  those  terrible  struggles  at  Tou- 
louse, and  the  poet's  imagination  is  hanging 
at  moon-rise  over  the  scene,  'The  low  broad 
field  scattered  over  thick  with  corpses,  all 
silent,  dead, — the  last  sob"  spent,' — the  priest's 
thanksgiving  for  the  Catholic  victory  having 
died  into  an  echo,  and  only  the  'vultures  car- 
ing their  Te  Deum  Laudamus.' 

Hat  Gott  de  Herr  den  Korperstoff  erschaffen, 
Ha   ihn  hepvorgebracht  ein  boser  Geist, 
Dariiber  stritten  sie  mit  alien  Waffen 
Und  werden  von  den  Vogeln  nungespiest, 
Die,  ohne  ihren  Ursprung  nachzufragen, 
Die  Korper  da  sich  lassen  wohl  behagen. 

'  Was  it  God  the  Lord  who  formed  the  sub- 
stance of  their  bodies  ?  or  did  some  evil  spirit 
bring  it  forth  }  It  was  for  this  with  all  their 
might  they  fought,  and  now  they  are  devoured 
there  by  the  wild  birds,  who  sit  gorging  merrily 
over  their  carrion,  without  asking  from  whence 
it  came.' 

In  Homer,  as  we  saw,  the  true  hero  is  mas- 
ter over  death — death  has  no  terror  for  him. 
He  meets  it,  if  it  is  to  be,  calmly  and  proudly, 
and  then  it  is  over  ;  whatever  offensive  may 
follow  after  it,  is  concealed,  or  at  least  passed 
lightly  over.  Here,  on  the  contrary,  everytiiing 
most  offensive  is  dwelt  upon  with  an  agonizing 
intensity,  and  the  triumph  of  death  is  made  to 
extend,  not  over  the  body  only,  but  over  the 
soul,  whose  heroism  it  turns  to  mockery.  The 
cause  in  which  a  man  dies,  is  what  can  make 
his  death  beautiful ;  but  here  nature  herself,  in 


nOMER.  261 

her  stern,  awful  way,  is  readinj;  her  sentence 
over  the  cause  itself  as  a  wild  ancl  frantic  dream. 
We  ouf^iit  to  be  revolted — doubly  revolted,  one 
would  ihiuk,  and  yet  we  are  \\o\.  so;  instead  of 
bein:^  revolted,  we  were  affected  with  a  sense 
of  vast,  sad  magnificence.  Why  is  this  ?  Be- 
cause we  lose  sight  of  the  scene  or  lose  the  sense 
of  its  horror,  in  the  confusion  of  the  spirit.  It 
is  the  true  modern  tragedy ;  the  note  which 
sounds  through  Shakespeare's  '  Sonnets,' 
through  '  Hamlet,'  through  '  Faust.'  All  the 
deeper  trials  of  the  modern  heart  might  be 
gathered  out  of  those  few  lines  ;  the  sense  of 
wasted  nobleness — nobleness  spending  its  ener- 
gies upon  what  time  seems  to  be  pronouncing 
no  better  than  a  dream — at  any  rate,  misgiv- 
ings, sceptic  and  distracting  ;  yet  the  heart  the 
while,  in  spite  of  the  uncertainty  of  the  issue, 
remaining  true  to  itself.  If  the  spirit  of  the  Al- 
bigensian  warriors  had  really  broken  down,  or  if 
the  poet  had  jDointed  his  lesson  so  as  to  say, 
Truth  is  a  lie  ;  faith  is  folly ;  eat,  drink,  and 
die, — then  his  picture  would  have  been  revolt- 
ing; but  the  noble  spirit  remains,  though  it  is 
borne  down  and  trifled  with  by  destiny,  and 
therefore   it  is  not  revolting  but  trao-ic. 

Far  different  from  this — as  far  inferior  in 
tone  to  Lenau's  lines,  as  it  exceeds  them  in 
beauty  of  workmanship — is  the  well-known 
picture  of  the  scene  under  the  v/all  in  the  Siege 
of  Corinth : 

lie  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  thei''  carnival  ; 

Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb; 

They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him  ! 

From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh; 

And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull, 

As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws  when  their  edge  grew 

dull. 
As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead, 
When  thcv  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot   where  they 

fed  ;  ' 
So  well  they  had  broken  a  lingering  fast 
With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  repast. 


2  62  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  roll'd  on  the  san^ 
The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band  : 


The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 
The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 
Close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 
There  sate  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 
Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away, 
Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey; 
iJut  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 
Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

For  a  parallel  to  the  horribleness  of  this  won- 
derfully painted  scene  we  need  not  go  to  the 
Nibelungen,  for  we  shall  find  nothing  like  it 
there  :  we  must  go  back  to  the  carved  slabs 
which  adorned  the  banquet  halls  of  the  Assyr- 
ian kings,  where  the  foul  birds  hover  over  the 
stricken  fields,  and  trail  from  their  talons  the 
entrails  of  the  slain. 

And  for  what  purpose  does  Byron  introduce 
these  frightful  images  ?  Was  it  in  contrast  to 
the  exquisite  moonlight  which  tempts  the  rene- 
gade out  of  his  tent  ?  Was  it  to  bring  his  mind 
into  a  fit  condition  to  be  worked  upon  by  the 
vision  of  Francesca?  It  does  but  mar  and  un- 
tune the  softening  influence  of  nature,  which 
might  have  been  rendered  more  powerful,  per- 
haps, by  some  slight  touch  to  remind  him  of 
his  past  day's  work,  but  are  blotted  out  and 
paralyzed  by  such  a  mass  of  horrors. 

To  go  back  to  Homer. 

We  must  omit  for  the  present  any  notice  of 
the  domestic  pictures,  of  which  there  are  so 
many,  in  the  palaces  of  Ulysses,  of  Nestor,  or 
of  Alcinous ;  of  the  games,  so  manly,  yet,  in 
point  of  refinement,  so  superior  even  to  those 
of  our  own  middle  ages  ;  of  the  supreme  good  of 
life  as  the  Greeks  conceived  it,  and  of  the  arts 
by  which  they  endeavored  to  realize  that  good. 
It  is  useless  to  notice  such  things  briefly,  and 
the  detail  would  expand  into  a  volume.  But 
the  impression  which  we  gather  from  them  is 
the  same  which  we  have  gathered  all  along — 


HOMER.  263 

that  if  the  proper  aim  of  all  human  culture  be 
to  combine,  in  the  highest  measure  in  which 
they  are  compaiil)le,  ihe  two  elements  of  re- 
finenieut  and  of  manliness,  then  Homer's  age 
was  cullivated  to  a  degree  the  like  of  which 
the  earth  has  not  witnessed  since.  '^I'here  is 
more  refinement  under  Pericles,  as  there  is 
more  in  modern  London  and  Paris  ;  but  there 
was,  and  there  is,  infinitely  more  vice.  There 
was  more  fierceness  (greater  manliness  there 
never  was)  in  the  times  of  feudalism.  But  take 
it  for  all  in  all,  and  in  a  mere  human  sense, 
apart  from  any  other  aspect  of  the  world  which 
is  involved  in  Christianity,  it  is  difficult  to 
point  to  a  time  when  life  in  general  was  happier, 
and  the  character  of  man  set  in  a  more  noble 
form.  If  we  have  drawn  the  picture  with  too 
little  shadow,  let  it  be  allowed  for.  The  shadow 
was  there,  doubtless,  though  we  see  it  only  in  a 
few  dark  spots.  The  Margiles  would  have  sup- 
plied the  rest,  but  the  Margites,  unhappily  for 
us,  is  lost.  Even  heroes  have  their  littlenesses, 
and  Comedy  is  truer  to  the  details  of  littleness 
than  Tragedy  or  Epic.  The  grand  is  always 
more  or  less  ideal,  and  the  elevation  of  a  mo- 
ment is  sublimed  into  the  spirit  of  a  life. 
Comedy,  therefore,  is  essential  for  the  repre- 
senting of  men  ;  and  there  were  times,  doubt- 
less, when  the  complexion  of  Agamemnon's 
greatness  was  discolored,  like  Prince  Henry's, 
by  remembering,  when  he  was  weary,  that  poor 
creature — small  beer — /.  e.  if  the  Greeks  had 
got  any. 

A  more  serious  discoloration,  however,  we 
are  obliged  to  say  that  we  find  in  Homer  him- 
self, in  the  soil  or  taint  which  even  he  is  obliged 
to  cast  over  the  position  of  women.  In  the 
Iliad,  where  there  is  no  sign  of  male  slavery, 
women  had  already  fallen  under  the  chain,  and 
though  there  does  not  seem  to  have  been  any 
practice  of  polygamy,  the  female  prisoners  fell, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  into  a  more  degraded 
position.     It  is  painful,   too,   to   observe  that 


264  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

their  own  feelings  followed  the  practice  of  the 
times,  and  that  they  composed  themselves  to 
bear  without  reluctance  whatever  their  destiny 
forced  upon  them.  When  Priam  ventured  in- 
to the  Grecian  camp  for  Hector's  body,  and 
stood  under  the  roof  of  Achilles,  he  endured 
to  do  what,  as  he  says,  no  mortal  father  had 
ever  yet  endured — to  give  his  hand  to  his  son's 
destrover.  Briseis,  whose  bed  was  made  deso- 
late  by  the  hand  of  the  same  Achilles,  finds  it 
her  one  greatest  consolation,  that  the  conquer- 
or stoops  to  choose  her  to  share  his  own.  And 
when  Hector  in  his  last  parting  scene  antici- 
pates a  like  fate  for  his  own  Andromache,  it  is 
not  with  the  revolted  agony  of  horror  with 
which  such  a  possible  future  would  be  regarded 
by  a  modern  husband  ;  nor  does  Andromache, 
however  bitterly  she  feels  the  danger,  protest, 
as  a  modern  wife  would  do,  that  there  was  no 
fear  for  her — that  death  by  sorrow's  hand,  or 
by  her  own,  would  preserve  her  to  rejoin  him. 

Nor,  again,  was  unfaithfulness,  of  however 
long  duration,  conclusively  fatal  against  a  wife; 
for  we  meet  Helen,  after  a  twenty  years'  elope- 
ment, again  the  quiet,  hospitable  mistress  in 
the  Spartan  palace,  entertaining  her  husband's 
guests  with  an  easy  matronly  dignity,  and  not 
afraid  even  in  Menelaus's  presence  to  allude 
to  the  past — in  strong  terms  of  self-reproach, 
indeed,  but  with  nothing  like  despairing  pros- 
tration. Making  the  worst  of  this,  however, 
yet  even  in  this  respect  the  Homeric  Greeks 
were  better  than  their  contemporaries  in  Pal- 
estine ;  and  on  the  whole  there  was,  perhaps, 
no  time  anterior  to  Christianity  when  women 
held  a  higher  place,  or  the  relation  between 
wife  and  husband  was  of  a  more  free  and  hon- 
orable kind. 

For  we  have  given  but  one  side  of  the  picture. 
When  a  woman  can  be  the  theme  of  a  poet, 
her  nature  cannot  be  held  in  slight  esteem; 
and  there  is  no  doubt  tliat  Penelope  is  Homer's 
heroine  in  the  Odyssey.     One  design,  at  least, 


HOMER.  265 

which  Homer  had  before  him  was  to  vindicate 
the  character  of  the  virtuous  matron  against 
the  stain  which  Clytcninestra  had  inflicted  on 
it.  Ciytenincstra  has  every  advantage,  Penel- 
ope every  difficulty  :  the  trial  of  the  former 
lasted  only  half  as  long  as  that  of  the  latter. 
Agamemnon  in  leaving  her  gave  herself  and  his 
house  in  charge  of  a  divine  dotSo's,  a  heaven- 
inspired  prophet,  who  should  stand  between 
her  and  temptation,  and  whom  she  had  to 
murder  before  her  passion  could  have  its  way. 
Penelope  had  to  bear  up  alone  for  twenty 
weary  years,  without  a  friend,  without  a  coun- 
sellor, and  with  even  a  child  whose  constancy 
was  wavering.  It  is  obvious  that  Homer  de- 
signed this  contrast.  The  story  of  the  Argos 
tragedy  is  told  again  and  again.  The  shade  of 
Agamemnon  himself  forebodes  a  fate  like  his 
own  to  Ulysses.  It  is  Ulysses's  first  thought 
when  he  wakes  from  his  sleep  to  find  himself 
in  his  own  land  ;  and  the  scene  in  Hades,  in 
the  last  book,  seems  only  introduced  that  the 
husband  of  Clytemnestra  may  meet  the  shades 
of  the  Ithacan  suitors,  and  learn,  in  their  own 
tale  of  the  sad  issue  of  their  wooing,  how  far 
otherwise  it  had  fared  with  Ulysses  than  with 
himself.  Women,  therefore,  according  to 
Homer,  were  as  capable  of  heroic  virtue  as 
men  were,  and  the  ideal  of  this  heroism  is  one 
to  which  we  have  scarcely  added. 

For  the  rest,  there  is  no  trace  of  any  oriental 
seraglio  system.  The  sexes  lived  together  in 
easy  unaffected  intercourse.  The  ladies  ap- 
peared in  society  naturally  and  gracefully,  and 
their  chief  occupations  were  household  matters, 
care  of  clothes  and  linen,  and  other  domestic 
arrangements.  When  a  guest  came,  they  pre- 
pared his  dressing-room,  settled  the  bath,  and 
laid  out  the  conveniences  of  his  toilet-table. 
In  their  leisure  hours,  they  were  to  be  found, 
as  now,  in  the  hall  or  the  saloon,  and  their 
Work-table  contained  pretty  much  the  same 
materials.     Helen  was  winding  worsted  as  she 


266  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

entertained  Telemachus,  and  Andromache 
worked  roses  in  very  modern  cross-stitch.  A 
literal ist  like  Mr.  Mackav,  who  finds  that  the 
Israelites  were  cannibals,  from  such  expressions 
as  '  drinking  the  blood  of  the  slain,'  might  dis- 
cover, perhaps,  a  similar  unpleasant  propensity 
in  an  exited  wish  of  Hecuba,  that  she  might 
eat  the  heart  of  Achilles  ;  but  in  the  absence 
of  other  evidence,  it  is  unwise  in  either  case  to 
press  a  metaphor ;  and  the  food  of  ladies, 
wherever  Homer  lets  us  see  it,  is  very  innocent 
cake  and  wine,  with  such  fruits  as  were  in  sea- 
son. To  judge  by  Nausicaa,  their  breeding 
must  have  been  exquisite.  Nausicaa  standing 
still,  when  the  uncouth  figure  of  Ulysses 
emerged  from  under  the  wood,  all  sea-slime 
and  nakedness,  and  only  covered  with  a  girdle 
of  leaves — standing  still  to  meet  him  when  the 
other  girls  ran  away  tittering  and  terrified,  is 
the  perfect  conception  of  true  female  modesty  ; 
and  in  the  whole  scene  between  them,  Homer 
shows  the  most  finished  understanding  of  the 
delicate  and  tremulous  relations  which  occur 
occasionally  in  the  accidents  of  intercourse 
between  highly  cultivated  men  and  women,  and 
which  he  could  only  have  learnt  by  living  in  a 
society  where  men  and  women  met  and  felt  in 
the  way  which  he  has  described. 

Who,  then,  was  Homer  ?  What  was  he } 
When  did  he  live .''  History  has  absolutely 
nothing  to  answer.  His  poems  were  not  writ- 
ten ;  for  the  art  of  writing  (at  any  rate  for  a 
poet's  purpose)  was  unknown  to  him.  There 
is  a  vague  tradition  that  the  Iliad,  and  the 
Odyssey,  and  a  comic  poem  called  the  Margites, 
were  composed  by  an  Ionian  whose  name  was 
Homer,  about  four  hundred  years  before  He- 
rodotus, or  in  the  ninth  century  B.C.  We  know 
certainly  that  these  poems  were  preserved  by 
the  Rhapsodists  or  popular  reciters,  who 
repeated  them  at  private  parties  or  festivals, 
until  writing  came  into  use,  and  they  were  fixed 
in  a  less  precarious   form.     A  later  story  was 


HOMER.  267 

current,  that  we  owe  the  collection  to  Pisistratus ; 
but  an  exclusive  claim  for  him  was  probably 
only  Athenian  conceit.  It  is  incredible  that 
men  of  genius  in  Homer's  own  land — Alcieus, 
for  instance — should  have  left  such  a  work  to 
be  done  by  a  foreigner.  But^his  is  really  all 
which  is  known  ;  and  the  creation  of  the  poems 
lies  in  impenetrable  inystery.  Nothing  remains 
to  guide  us,  therefore,  except  internal  evidence 
(strangely  enough,  it  is  the  same  with  Shake- 
speare), and  it  has  led  to  wild  conclusions  ;  yet 
the  wildest  is  not  without  its  use  ;  it  has  com- 
monly something  to  rest  upon  ;  and  internal 
evidence  is  only  really  valuable  when  outward 
testimony  has  been  sifted  to  the  uttermost. 
The  present  opinion  seems  to  be,  that  each 
poem  is  unquestionably  the  work  of  one  man  ; 
but  whether  both  poems  are  the  work  of  the 
same  is  yet  suh-jiidice.  The  Greeks  believed 
they  were  ;  and  that  is  much.  There  are  re- 
markable points  of  resemblance  in  style,  yet 
not  greater  than  the  resemblances  in  the  'Two 
Noble  Kinsmen  '  and  in  the  '  Yorkshire  Trag- 
edy '  to  '  Macbeth  '  and  '  Hamlet ; '  and  there 
are  more  remarkable  points  of  non-resemblance, 
which  deepen  upon  us  the  more  we  read.  On 
the  other  hand,  tradition  is  absolute.  If  the 
style  of  the  Odyssey  is  sometimes  unlike  the 
Iliad,  so  is  one  part  of  the  Iliad  sometimes  un- 
like another.  It  is  hard  to  conceive  a  genius 
equal  to  the  creation  of  either  Iliad  or  Odyssey 
to  have  existed  without  leaving  so  much  as  a 
legend  of  his  name  ;  and  the  difficulty  of  criti- 
cising style  accurately  in  an-old^  language  will 
be  appreciated  by  those  who  have  tried  their 
hand  in  their  own  language  with  the  disputed 
plays  of  Shakespeare.  There  are  heavy  diffi- 
culties every  way  ;  and  we  shall  best  conclude 
our  own  subject  by  noting  down  briefly  the 
most  striking  points  of  variation  of  which  as 
yet  no  explanation  has  been  attempted.  We 
have  already  noticed  several :  the  non-appear- 
ance of  male  slavery  in  the  Iliad  which  is  com- 


268  IIISTORJCAL  ESSAYS. 

mon  in  the  Odyssey  ;  the  notion  of  a  future 
state ;  and  perhaps  a  fuller  cultivation  in  the 
female  character.  Andromache  is  as  delicate 
as  Nausicaa,  but  she  is  not  as  grand  as  Penelope ; 
and  in  marked  contrast  to  the  feeling  expressed 
by  Briseis,  is  the  passage  where  the  grief  of 
Ulysses  over  the  song  of  Demodocus  is  com- 
pared to  the  grief  of  a  young  wife  flinging  her- 
self on  the  yet  warm  body  of  her  husband,  and 
looking  forward  to  her  impending  slavery  with 
feelings  of  horror  and  repulsion.  But  these 
are  among  the  slightest  points  in  which  the 
two  poems  are  dissimilar.  Not  only  are  there 
slaves  in  the  Odyssey,  but  there  are  ^c?, 
or  serfs,  an  order  with  which  we  are  familiar 
in  later  times,  but  which  again  are  not  in  the 
Iliad.  In  the  Odyssey  the  Trojans  are  called 
iin(irfTope%  hnrtjiv,  which  must  mean  riders. 
In  the  Iliad,  horses  are  never  ridden ;  they  are 
always  in  harness. 

Wherever  in  the  Odyssey  the  Trojan  war  is 
alluded  to  (and  it  is  very  often),  in  no  one  case 
is  the  allusion  to  anything  which  is  mentioned 
in  the  Iliad.  We  hear  of  the  wooden  horse, 
the  taking  of  Troy,  the  death  of  Achilles,  the 
contention  of  Ulysses  with  Ajax  for  his  arms, 
it  might  be  said  that  the  poet  wished  to  supply 
afterwards  indiroctlv  what  he  had  left  in  the 
Iliad  untold  ;  but  again,  this  is  impossible,  for 
a  very  curious  reason.  The  Iliad  opens  with 
the  wrath  of  Achilles,  which  caused  such  bitter 
woe  to  the  Achaians.  In  the  Odyssey  it  is 
still  the  wrath  of  Achilles  ;  but  singularly  not 
loith  Agamemnon^  but  with  Ulysses.  Ulysses  to 
the  author  of  the  Odyssey  was  a  far  grander 
person  at  Troy  than  he  appears  in  the  Iliad. 
In  the  latter  poem  he  is  great,  but  far  from 
one  of  the  greatest ;  in  the  other,  he  is  evidently 
the  next  to  Achilles  ;  and  it  seems  almost 
certain  that  whoever  wrote  the  Odyssey  was 
working  from  some  other  legend  of  the  war. 
There  were  a  thousand  versions  of  it.  The 
tale  of  Ilium  was  set  to  every  lyre  in   Greece, 


HOMER.  269 

and  the  relative  jiosition  of  the  heroes  was 
doubtless  varied  according  to  the  sympathies 
or  the  patriotism  of  the  singer.  The  charac- 
ter of  Ulysses  is  much  stronger  in  the 
Odyssey  ;  and  even  when  the  same  qualities 
are  attributed  to  him — his  soft-flowing  tongue, 
his  cunning,  and  his  eloquence — they  are  held 
in  very  different  estimation.  The  Homer  of 
the  Iliad  has  little  liking  for  a  talker.  Ther- 
sites  is  his  pattern  specimen  of  such  ;  and  it  is 
the  current  scoff  at  unready  warriors  to  praise 
their  father's  courage,  and  then  to  add — 

oKhh  rhv  vlfiv 
yeivaro  elo  x^pvo  ft'^XVy  "J'opy  <5£  t"  u/ieIvca. 

But  the  Phoeacian  Lord  who  ventured  to  reflect, 
in  the  Iliad  style,  on  the  supposed  unreadiness 
of  Ulysses,  is  taught  a  different  notion  of 
human  excellence.  Ulysses  tells  hhn  that  he 
is  a  fool.  '  The  gods,'  Ulysses  says,  '  do  not 
give  all  good  things  to  all  men,  and  often  a  man 
is  made  unfair  to  look  upon,  but  over  his  ill 
favor  they  fling,  like  a  garland,  a  power  of 
lovely  speech,  and  the  people  delight  to  /oa/^  on 
him.  He  speaks  with  modest  dignity,  and  he 
shines  among  the  multitude.  As  he  walks 
through  the  city,  men  gaze  on  him  as  on  a  god.' 

Differences  like  these;  however,  are  far  from 
decisive.  The  very  sliglitest  external  evidence 
wowld  weigh  them  all  down  together.  Perhaps 
the  following  may  be  of  more  importance  : — 

In  both  poems  there  are  '  questionings  of 
destiny,'  as  the  modern  phrase  goes.  The 
thing  which  we  call  human  life  is  looked  in 
the  face — this  little  checkered  island  of  lights 
and  shadows,  in  the  middle  of  an  ocean  of  dark- 
ness ;  and  in  each  we  see  the  sort  of  answer 
which  the  poet  finds  for  himself,  and  which  night 
be  summed  up  briefly  in  the  last  words  of  Eccle- 
siastes,  '  Fear  God,  and  keep  His  command- 
ments :  for  this  is  the  whole  duty  of  man.'  But 
the  world  bears  a  different  aspect,  and  the 
answer  looks   different  in   it  application.     In 


270  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS, 

the  Iliad,  in  spite  of  the  gloom  of  Achilles,  and 
his  complaint  of  the  double  urn,  the  sense  of 
life,  on  the  whole,  is  sunny  and  cheerful.  There 
is  no  vearninsf  for  anvthins:  bcvond — nothin<r 
vague,  nothing  m^'stical.  The  earth,  the  men, 
the  gods,  have  all  a  palpable  reality  about  them. 
From  first  to  last,  we  know  where  we  are,  and 
what  we  are  about.  In  the  Odyssey  we  are 
breathing  another  atmosphere.  The  specula- 
tions on  the  moral  mysteries  of  our  being  hang 
like  a  mist  over  us  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  ;  and  the  cloud  from  time  to  time  descends 
on  the  actors  and  envelopes  them  with  a  pre- 
ternatural halo.  The  poet  evidently  dislikes  the 
expression  of '  suffering  being  the  lot  of  mortals, 
as  if  it  had  been  abused  already  for  ungodly 
purposes.  In  the  opening  of  the  first  book, 
Zeus  reproves  the  folly  of  mortal  men  for  cast- 
ing the  blame  upon  the  gods  when  they  them- 
selves, in  spite  of  all  the  gods  can  do  to  save 
them,  persist  in  their  own  perverseness  ;  and 
we  never  know  as  we  go  on,  so  fast  we  pass 
from  one  to  the  other,  when  we  are  among  mere 
human  beings,  and  when  among  the  spiritual 
or  the  mystical.  Those  sea-nymphs,  those 
cannibals,  those  enchantresses  if  intended  to  be 
real,  are  neither  mortal  nor  divine — at  any 
rate,  like  nothing  divine  which  we  had  seen  in 
Olympus,  or  on  the  plains  of  Ilium ;  and  at 
times  there  is  a  strangeness  even  in  the  hero 
himself.  Sometimes  it  is  Ulysses  painfully 
painfully  toiling  his  was  home  across  the  un- 
known ocean ;  sometimes  it  is  we  that  are 
Ulysses,  and  that  unknown  ocean  is  the  life 
across  which  we  are  wandering,  with  too  many 
Circes,  and  Sirens,  and  '  Isles  of  Error  in  our 
path.  In  the  same  spirit  death  is  no  longer 
the  end  ;  and  on  every  side  long  vistas  seem  to 
stretch  away  into  the  infinite,  peopled  with 
shadowy  forms. 

Ijut,  as  if  this  palpable  initiation  into  the 
unseen  were  still  insufficient  or  unconvincing, 
the  common  ground  on  which  we  are  treading 


HOMER.  271 

sometimes  shakes  under  us,  and  we  feel  as 
Humboldt  describes  himself  to  have  felt  at  the 
first  shock  of  an  earthquake.  Strange  pieces 
of  mysterious  wildness  are  let  fall  in  our  way, 
coming  suddenly  on  us  like  spectres,  and 
vanishing  without  explanation  or  hint  of  their 
purpose.  What  are  those  Phceacian  ships 
meant  for,  which  required  neither  sail  nor  oar, 
but  of  their  own  selves  read  the  hearts  of  those 
they  carried,  and  bore  them  wherever  they 
would  go  ? — or  the  wild  end  of  the  ship  which 
carried  Ulysses  home  ? — or  that  terrible  piece 
of  second  sight  in  the  Hall  of  Ithaca,  for  which 
the  seer  was  brought  from  Pylos  ? — or  those 
islands,  one  of  which  is  forever  wasting  while 
another  is  born  into  being  to  complete  the 
number  ? — or  those  mystical  sheep  and  oxen, 
which  knew  neither  age  nor  death,  nor  even 
had  offspring  born  to  them,  and  whose  flesh 
upon  the  spits  began  to  crawl  and  bellow  ? — 
or  Helen  singing  round  the  horse  inside  the 
Trojan  walls,  when  every  Grecian  chief's  heart 
fainted  in  him  as  he  thought  he  heard  the 
voice  of  his  own  dear  wife  far  away  beyond  the 
sea  ? 

In  the  far  gates  of  the  Lcestrygones,  *  where 
such  a  narrow  rim  of  night  divided  day  from 
day,  that  a  man  who  needed  not  sleep  might 
earn  a  double  hire,  and  the  cry  of  the  shepherd 
at  evening  driving  home  his  flock  was  heard  by 
the  shepherd  going  out  in  the  morning  to 
pasture,'  we  have,  perhaps,  some  tale  of  a 
Phcenician  mariner  who  had  wandered  into  the 
North  Seas,  and  seen  '  the  Norwav  sunset  into 
sunrise.'  But  what  shall  we  say  to  that  Syrian 
isle,  '  where  disease  is  not,  nor  hunger,  nor 
thirst,  and  where,  when  men  grow  old,  Apollo 
comes  with  Artemis,  and  alays  them  with  his 
silver  bow  ?  '  There  is  nothing  in  the  Iliad 
like  any  of  these  stories. 

Yet,  when  all  is  said,  it  matters  little  who 
wrote  the  poems.  Each  is  so  magnificent,  that' 
to  have  written  both  could  scarcely  have  in- 


272  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

creased  the  greatness  of  the  man  who  had 
written  one  ;  and  if  there  were  two  Homers, 
the  earth  is  richer  by  one  more  divine-gifted 
man  than  we  had  known.  After  all,  it  is  per- 
haps more  easy  to  believe  that  the  differences 
which  we  seem  to  see  arise  from  Homer's  own 
choice  of  the  material  which  best  suited  two 
works  so  different,  than  that  nature  was  so 
largely  prodigal  as  to  have  created  in  one  age 
and  in  one  people  two  such  men  ;  for  whether 
one  or  two,  the  authors  of  the  Iliad  and  the 
Odyssey  stand  alone  with  Shakespeare  far  away 
above  mankind. 


SOCIETY   IN    ITALY   IN    THE 
LAST   DAYS   OF   THE   RO- 
MAN   REPUBLIC. 


Whether  free  institutions  create  good  citi- 
zens, or  whether  coilversely  free  institutions 
imply  good  citizens  and  wither  up  and  perish 
as  private  virtue  decays,  is  a  question  which 
will  continue  to  be  agitated  as  long  as  political 
society  continues.  The  science  of  history 
ought  to  answer  it,  but  the  science  of  history 
is  silent  or  ambiguous  where,  if  it  could  tell  us 
anything  at  all,  it  would  be  able  to  speak 
decidedly.  What  is  called  the  philosophy  of 
history  is,  and  can  be,  only  an  attempted  inter- 
pretation of  earlier  ages  by  the  modes  of 
thought  current  in  our  own  ;  and  those  modes 
of  thought,  being  formed  by  the  study  of  the 
phenomena  which  are  actually  around  us,  are 
changed  from  era  to  era;  We  read  the  past 
by  the  light  of  the  present^  and  the  forms  vary 
as  the  shadows  fall,  or  as  the  point  of  vision 
alters.  Those  who  have  studied  mos,t  conscien,- 
tiously  the  intiuences  which  have  determined 
their  own  convictions  will  be  the  last  to  claim 
exemption  from  the  control  of  forces  which 
they  recognize  as  universal  and  irresistible. 
The  foreground  of  human  life  is  the  only  part 
of  it  which  we  can  examine  with  real  exact- 
ness. As  the  distance  recedes  details  disappear 
in  the  shade,  or  resolve  themselves  into  out- 
lines. We  turn  to  contemporary  books  and 
records,  but  we  lose  in  light  and  in  connection 
with  present  experience  what  we  gain  in  minute- 
ness. The  accounts  of  their  own  times  which 
earlier  writers  leave  to  us  are  colored  in  turn 


274 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


by  their  opinions,  and  we  cannot  so  reproduce 
the  past  as  to  guard  against  prejudices  which 
governed  those  writers  as  much  as  they  govern 
ourselves.  The  result,  even  to  the  keenest 
historical  sight,  is  no  more  than  a  picture 
which  each  of  us  paints  for  himself  upon  the 
retina  of  his  own  imagination. 

These  conditions  of  our  nature  warn  us  all, 
if  we  are  wise,  against  generalized  views  of 
history.  We  form  general  views.  This,  too. 
we  cannot  help,  unless  we  are  ignorant  of  the 
past  altogether.  But  we  receive  them  for  what 
they  are  worth.  They  do  not  repose  upon  a 
knowledge  of  facts  which  can  form  the  founda- 
tions of  a  science.  We  see  certain  objects  ; 
but  we  see  them  not  as  they  were,  but  fore^ 
shortened  by  distance  and  colored  by  the  at- 
mosphere of  time.  The  impression,  before  ii 
arrives  in  our  minds,  has  been  half  created  by 
ourselves.  Therefore  it  is  that  from  philoso- 
phy of  history,  from  attempts  to  explain  the 
phenomena  of  earlier  generations  by  referring 
them  to  general  principles,  we  turn  with  weari- 
ness and  distrust.  We  find  more  interest  in 
taking  advantage  of  those  rare  occasions 
where  we  can  apply  a  telescope  to  particular 
incidents,  and  catch  a  sight  of  small  fractions 
of  the  actual  doings  of  our  fellow-mortals,  where 
accident  enables  us  to  examine  them  in  de- 
tailed pattern.  We  may  obtain  little  in  this 
way  to  convince  our  judgment,  but  we  can 
satisfy  an  innocent  curiosity,  and  we  can  some- 
times see  enough  to  put  us  on  our  guard 
against  universal  conclusions. 

We  know,  for  instance  (so  far  as  w^  can 
speak  of  knowledge  of  the  general  character 
of  an  epoch),  that  the  early  commonwealth  of 
Rome  was  distinguished  by  remarkable  purity 
of  manners ;  that  the  marriage  tie  was  sin- 
gularly respected  ;  that  the  Latin  yeomen,  Avho 
were  the  back-bone  of  the  community,  were  in- 
dustrious and  laborious,  that  they  lived  with 
frugality  and  simplicity,  and  bruught  up  their 


THE  ROMAN  KEPUBLIC. 


275 


children  in  a  humble  fear  of  God  or  of  the 
gods  as  rulers  to  whom  they  would  one  day 
have  to  give  an  account.  That  the  youth  of  a 
plant  which  grew  so  sturdily  was  exceptionally 
healthy  is  no  more  than  we  should  naturally 
infer,  and  that  the  fact  was  so  is  confirmed  to 
us  both  by  legend  and  authentic  record.  The 
change  of  manners  is  assumed  by  some  persons 
to  have  come  in  with  the  Caesars.  Virtue  is 
supposed  to  have  flourished  so  long  as  liberty 
survived,  and  the  perfidy  and  profligacy  of 
which  we  read  with  disgust  in  Tacitus  and 
Juvenal  are  regarded  as  the  offspring  of  de- 
spotism. With  the  general  state  of  European 
morals  under  the  first  centuries  of  the  Empire 
we  are  extremely  ill-acquainted.  Tacitus  and 
Juvenal  describe  the  society  of  the  capital. 
Of  life  in  the  country  and  in  the  provincial 
towns  they  tell  us  next  to  nothing.  If  we  may 
presume  that  the  Messalinas  had  their  imita- 
tors in  the  provinces  ;  if  we  may  gather  from 
the  Epistles  of  St.  Paul  that  the  morals  of 
Corinth  for  instance  were  not  distinguished  by 
any  special  excellence,  yet  there  was  virtue  or 
desire  of  virtue  enough  in  the  world  to  make 
possible  the  growth  of  Christianity. 

Accident,  on  the  other  hand,  has  preserved 
the  fragments  of  a  drama  of  real  life,  which 
was  played  out  in  the  last  days  of  the  Republic, 
partly  in  Rome  itself,  partly  in  a  provincial 
city  in  South  Italy,  from  which  it  would  ap- 
pear that  the  ancient  manners  were  already 
evervwhere  on  the  decline  :  that  institutions 
suited  to  an  age  when  men  were  a  lav/  to 
themselves,  could  not  prevent  them  from  be- 
coming wicked  if  they  were  inclined,  and  only 
saved  them  from  punishment  when  they  had 
deserved  it.  The  broken  pieces  of  the  story 
leave  much  to  be  desired.  The  actions  are 
preserved ;  the  actors  are  little  more  than 
names.  The  flesh  and  blood,  the  thoughts 
that  wrought  in  the  brain,  the  passions  that 
boiled  in  the  veins — these  are  drv  as  the  dust 


276  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

of  a  mummy  from  an  Egyptian  catacomb. 
Though  generations  pass  away,  however,  the 
earth  at  last  remains.  We  cannot  see  the  old 
nations,  but  we  can  stand  where  they  stood  ; 
we  can  look  on  the  landscape  on  which  they 
looked ;  we  can  watch  the  shadows  of  the 
clods  chasing  one  another  on  the  same  moun- 
tain slopes ;  we  can  listen  to  the  everlasting 
music  of  the  same  water-falls ;  we  can  hear  the 
same  surf  far  off  breaking  upon  the  beach. 

Let  us  transport  ourselves  then  to  the 
Neapolitan  town  of  Larino,  not  far  from  the 
Gulf  of  Venice.  In  the  remains  of  the 
amphitheatre  we  can  recognize  the  Roman 
hands  that  once  were  laboring  there. 

Let  us  imagine  that  it  is  the  year  88  before 
Christ,  when  Caesar  was  a  boy  of  twelve,  when 
the  Social  War  had  just  been  ended  by  Sylla, 
and  Marius  had  fled  from  Rome,  to  moralize 
amidst  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  Larino,  like 
most  of  the  Samnite  towns,  had  taken  part 
with  the  patriots.  Several  of  its  most  dis- 
tinguished citizens  had  fallen  in  battle.  They 
had  been  defeated,  but  their  cause  had  surviv- 
ed. Summoned  to  Asia  to  oppose  Mithridates, 
Sylla  had  postponed  his  revenge,  and  had  con- 
ceded at  least  some  of  the  objects  for  which 
the  Italians  had  been  in  arms.  The  leaders 
returned  to  their  homes,  and  their  estates 
escaped  confiscation.  The  two  families  of 
highest  consequence  in  Larino  were  the 
Cluentii  and  the  Aurii.  Both  were  in  mourn- 
ing. Lucius  Clueutius,  who  had  commanded 
the  insurgent  army  in  Campania,  had  been 
killed  at  Nola,  Marcus  Aurius  had  not  re- 
turned to  Larino  at  the  peace,  and  was  suppos- 
ed to  have  fallen  in  the  North  of  Italy,  Com- 
mon political  sympathies  had  drawn  the  sur- 
vivors together,  and  they  were  further  connect- 
ed by  marriage.  There  remained  of  the 
Cluentii  a  widowed  mother  named  Sassia,  with 
two  children,  Aulus  Clucntius  Avitus,  a  ])oy  of 
sixteen,  and  his  sister  Cluentia,  a  year  younger. 


THE  ROMAN  KEPU/iLIC. 


277 


Dinea,  the  mother  of  the  Aurii,  was  a  widow 
also.  Dinea  had  been  the  sister  of  Sassia's 
husband,  and  was  therefore  herself  a  Clucntia. 
She  had  four  children,  all  some  years  older 
than  their  cousins — Marius,  Aurius,  whom  she 
believed  to  be  dead  ;  Numerius  Aurius ;  Cnajus 
Magius  Aurius  ;  and  a  daughter,  Magia. 

The  Aurii  had  other  relations  of  the  same 
name  at  Larino — Aurius  Melinus,  Caius  Meli- 
nus;  and  several  more.  The  Cluentii  were  the 
last  of  their  race.  Both  families  were  rich. 
The  wealth  which  had  poured  into  Rome  after 
the  conquest  of  the  East  had  filtered  over 
Italy.  These  provincial  magistrates  lived  in 
handsome  villas,  with  comforts  which  would 
have  made  Cato  shudder;  and  wdited  upon 
by  retinues  of  slaves:  Otherwise  scandal  had 
no  harm  to  say  of  either  Aurii  or  Cluentii. 
They  were  honored  for  their  patriotism,  and 
beloved  for  their  private  virtues. 

A  third  family  at  Larino,  the  Oppianici, 
though  also  connected  with  the  Aurii,  belonged 
to  the  opposite  faction.  Caius  Oppianicus,  the 
younger  of  two  brothers^  was  married  to  Di- 
nea's  daughter  Magia.  Statins  Albinus  Oppi- 
anicus, the  elder,  and  the  head  of  the  clan,  had 
been  three  times  married  ;  first  to  a  sister  of 
Dinea,  who  had  died,  leaving  him  with  a  son  ; 
next,  to  a  lady  named  Papia,  who  bore  him  a 
son  also,  and  whom  he  had  divorced  ;  lastly,  to 
Novia,  who  was  for  the  present  living  with  him 
and  had  brought  him  a  third  son,  an  infant. 
He  had  squandered  his  own  fortune  and  the 
fortune  of  his  first  wife,  whom  he  was  suspected 
of  having  poisoned.  He  had  since  been  living 
by  his  wits,  and  had  figured  unpleasantly  in  a 
late  trial  at  Rome.  A  foolish  youth  of  Larino, 
appropriately  named  Asinius,  had  come  into 
possession  of  a  large  sum  of  money.  Like  lago, 
who  made  his  fool  his  purse,  Oppianicus  took 
possession  of  Asinius,  carried  hun  to  Rome  to 
see  the  world,  and  launched  him  among  the 
taverns  and  the  gambling  houses.     A  confed- 


278 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


erate,  Avilius,  a  Larinate  also,  made  a  third  in 
the  party  ;  and  one  night,  when  Asinius  was 
absent  with  a  female  companion,  with  whom 
they  were  assured  tiiat  he  would  remain  till 
morning,  Avilius  affected  to  be  taken  suddenly 
ill,  and  said  that  he  must  make  his  will.  A 
notary  and  witnesses  were  introduced  to  whom 
the  persons  of  Avilius  and  Asinius  were  alike 
unknown.  Avilius  bequeathed  all  his  property 
to  Oppianicus,  signed  his  name  Asinius,  and 
then  recovered.  The  true  Asinius  was  way- 
laid and  killed  a  few  days  after.  Oppianicus 
l^roduced  the  will,  claimed  the  estate,  and  ob- 
tained it — not,  however,  witliout  some  notice 
having  been  drawn  to  the  matter  which  might 
have  ended  unpleasantly  for  him.  Suspicions 
had  been  aroused,  it  does  not  appear  how. 
Avilius  was  arrested  and  carried  before  one  of 
the  city  magistrates,  to  whom  in  his  terror  he 
confessed  the  truth.  Fortunately  for  Oppian- 
icus, the  magistrate  was  discreet  and  not  inac- 
cessible. The  spoils  were  divided  and  the  af- 
fair was  hushed  up,  but  it  had  naturally  been 
much  talked  of  at  Larino.  Oppianicus  had 
been  looked  on  askance  ;  in  the  matter  of  for- 
tune he  was  in  a  desperate  condition,  and  he 
was  on  the  look-out  for  the  nearest  means  of 
improving  his  circumstances. 

He  was  a  man,  it  appears,  of  considerable 
personal  attractions.  He  had  made  himself 
agreeable  to  his  brother's  wife  Magia,  and  had 
seduced  her.  Her  brother  Numerius  caught  a 
fever  and  suddenly  died,  leaving  his  share  of 
the  Aurian  property  to  his  brother  Cnoeus 
Magius. 

Cnaeus  Magius  fell  ill  also  very  soon  after. 
He,  perhaps,  suspected  the  cause  of  his  sick- 
ness. At  any  rate  he  had  seen  with  alarm 
and  suspicion  his  sister's  intimacy  with  a  per- 
son of  so  questionable  a  character  as  Albinus 
Oppianicus.  His  alarms  were  not  diminished 
when  her  husband,  Caius  Oppianicus,  was 
found  dead  in  his  bed,  from  some  unexplained 


THE  ROMAN  REPUBLIC. 


279 


visitation ;  and  growing  rapidly  worse,  and 
feeling  that  his  own  end  was  not  far  off,  he  sent 
for  his  sister,  and  in  the  jDresence  of  his 
mother  Dinea  he  questioned  her  as  to  whether 
she  was  pregnant.  She  assured  him  that  it 
was  so.  She  half  satisfied  him  that  she  was 
herself  innocent  of  guilt,  and  that  Caius  Op- 
pianicus,  and  his  brother,  was  the  father. 
He  made  a  will  bequeathing  the  whole  inher- 
itance which  had  fallen  to  him  to  this  child  as 
soon  as  it  should  be  born.  He  appointed  his 
mother,  Dinea,  the  guardian,  lest  Albinus  Op- 
pianicus  should  interfere.  If  the  child  should 
miscarry,  or  should  not  survive.  Dinea  and 
Magia  were  then  to  divide  the  estates  between 
them. 

The  arrangement  had  scarcely  been  com- 
pleted when  Cna^us  Magius  died.  Oppianicus 
then  induced  Magia  to  take  a  medicine  which 
produced  abortion.  Magia  and  Dinea  became 
thus  coheiresses,  and  Oppianicus  saw  almost 
within  his  reach  the  accumulated  wealth  of  the 
family.  v> 

At  this  moment  a  stranger  appeared  it  Larino 
who  brought  news  that  the  elder  brother, 
Marcus  Aurius,  was  still  alive.  He  had  not 
been  killed,  as  report  had  said,  but  had  been 
taken  prisoner,  and  was  confined  with  hard 
labor  at  a  convict  station  in  the  North  of  Italy. 
The  story  was  not  improbable,  and  the  new- 
comer produced  credible  evidence  of  the  truth 
of  what  he  said.  He  gave  Dinea  the  names 
and  addresses  of  persons  who  had  seen  Mar- 
cus Aurius,  and  could  find  him.  The  hoj)e 
that  she  had  still  a  son  surviving  came  to  com- 
fort her  in  her  desolation,  and  she  despatched 
friends  to  discover  him,  purchase  his  release, 
and  restore  him  to  her. 

So  unpleasant  a  discovery  came  inoppor- 
tunely for  the  schemes  of  Oppianicus ;  but  he 
lost  neither  heart  nor  presence  of  mind.  He 
made  acquaintance  with  the  stranger,  pur- 
chased his  help,  and  induced  him  to  vary  his 


2o  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

account,"  and  '  throw    Dinea  on   a  false  scent. 
He  sent  off  a  confederate  to  gain  the  parties 
in  the  North  and  mislead  the  mother's  messen- 
gers, while  a  certain   Sextus  Vibrius  was  de- 
spatched to  obtain  true  directions  from  them, 
to  find  out  Marcus  Aurius,  and  assassinate  him. 
The  game  was  dangerous,  however,  so  long  as 
Dinea   lived.       She    had    Aurian   kinsmen  in 
Larino  who  were  powerful,  and  to  whom  she 
might    possibly  appeal.     He  was    aware  that 
her  suspicions  would  turn  upon  himself  as  soon 
as  she  should  hear  that  her  son  could  not  be 
found,   and  he  thought  it  better  to   anticipate 
future  trouble  by  removing  her  at  once.     She 
was  growing  old,    and  her  health   had   been 
shaken   by   sorrow  and  anxiety.     Oppianicus 
recommended  to  her  the  assistance  of  a  physi- 
cian of  whose   skill  he  professed  to  have  had 
experience.     Dinea   declined  his  advice^  and 
sent  for  another  doctor  from  Ancona,  whom 
Oppianicus  had  some  difficulty  in  gaining  over 
to  his  purpose.     He  succeeded  at  last,  how- 
ever, with  a  bribe  of  four  thousand  pounds,  and 
the  unfortunate  woman  was  poisoned.     Before 
she  died  she,  too,  made  a  will ;  but  Oppianicus 
destroyed  it.     His  agents  in  the    North  sent 
him  word  that  his  work  had  been  successfully 
done.      Marcns  Aurius  had  been   found  and 
killed,  and  all  traces  were  destroyed  by  which 
his  fate  could  be  discovered.     Oppianicus  at 
once  divorced  his  present  wife,  married  Magia, 
and  took  possession  of  the  estates  in  her  name. 
He  had  played  his  cards  skilfully ;  but  again, 
as  with  his  adventure   at   Rome,  without  hav- 
ing succeeded  perfectly  in  averting  suspicion 
from    himself.      Many   eyes,    no  doubt,    were 
watching  him.     The   Larinates  could  not  see 
with  complaisance  tlic  entire  disappearance  of 
one  of  their  most  honored  families,    and  the 
Aurian    estates   passing   into  the   hands  of   a 
blemished   and  bankrupt   adherent  of  the  Oli- 
garchic faction.  The  messengers  sent  by  Dinea 
reported  that  they  could  not  discover  Marcus 


THE  ROMAN  REPUBLIC.  281 

Aurius  ;  but  they  had  found  that  secret  efforts 
had  been  made  to  baffle  them.  They  liad  as- 
certained that  Oppianicus  had  been  concerned 
in  those  efforts,  and  they  wrote  to  Larino, 
charging  him  with  foul  play.  Dinea  being 
dead,  the  letters  were  taken  to  the  nearest  re- 
latives of  the  family,  Aurius  Melinus. 

This  Aurius  Melinus  had  already  appeared 
before  the  Larinate  public  in  a  not  very  credi- 
table manner.  Soon  after  the  death  of  her 
father  he  had  married  Cluentia,  daughter  of 
the  widow  Sassia,  and  sister  of  Aulus  Cluen- 
tius  Avitus.  Sassia,  who  was  a  licentious,  un- 
principled woman,  became  enamoured  of  her 
son-in-law.  Under  the  ancient  Roman  law, 
the  marriage  tie  had  been  as  indissoluble  as  in 
the  strictest  Christian  community.  But  the 
restraint  of  marriage,  like  every  other  check 
on  the  individual  will,  had  gone  down  before 
the  progress  of  democracy.  To  divorce  a  wife 
was  now  as  easy  as  to  change  a  dress.  The 
closest  affinity  was  no  longer  an  obstacle  to  a 
new  connection.  Sassia  succeeded  in  enchant- 
ing her  son-in-law.  The  daughter  was  divorced, 
and  the  mother  was  installed  in  her  place. 

Public  opinion,  though  degenerate,  was  not 
entirely  corrupted.  The  world  of  Larino  con- 
sidered itself  outraged  by  what  it  still  regarded 
as  incest.  Aulus  Cluentius,  the  son,  took  his 
mother's  conduct  so  much  to  heart  that  he  re- 
fused to  see  either  her  or  her  husband,  and  the 
domestic  scandal  had  created  almost  as  much 
asfitation  as  the  tra^jedv  of  Dinea  and  her  chil- 
dren.  The  two  vicious  streams  were  now  to 
unite.  Aurius  Melinus,  perhaps  to  recover 
the  esteem  of  his  fellow-citizens,  put  himself 
forward  to  deniand  justice  against  the  niur- 
flerers  of  his  kinsmen.  He  called  a  public 
meeting  ;  he  read  aloud  in  the  assembly  the 
letters  from  the  North  denouncing  Oppianicus. 
He  demanded  an  immediate  investigation.  If 
his   cousin    Marcus   was   no   longer    alive,    he 


282  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

charged  Oppianicus  with  having  assassinated 
him. 

Suspicions  already  rife  turned  to  certainty. 
The  people  rose.  They  rushed  to  Oppianicus's 
house  to  seize  and  tear  him  in  pieces.  Ex- 
ceptional villains  appear  at  times  to  be  the 
special  care  of  Providence,  as  if  they  had  a 
work  given  them  to  do  and  might  not  perish 
till  it  was  accomplished.  Oppianicus  had  fled; 
and  unhappily  a  political  revolution  had  not 
only  provided  him  with  a  sure  surfuge,  but 
with  means  vet  more  fatal  of  adding  to  his 
crimes.  While  Sylla  was  fighting  Mithridates 
in  Asia,  Marius  had  returned  to  a  seventh 
Consulship,  and  the  democracy  had  enjoyed  a 
brief  and  sanguinary  triumph  ;  but  Marius  was 
dead,  and  Sylla  had  returned  a  conqueror,  and 
the  name  of  every  eminent  advocate  of  popu- 
lar rights  was  now  entered  on  a  proscription 
list.  Sylla's  lieutenant,  Quintus  Metellus  was  en- 
camped not  far  from  Larino.  Oppianicus  threw 
himself  on  Metellus's  protection,  represent- 
ing himself,  perhaps,  as  the  victim  of  a  popu- 
lar commotion.  Metellus  sent  him  on  to  the 
Dictator,  and  from  Sylla  he  received  a  com- 
mission to  purge  Larino  of  its  suspected  citi- 
zens, to  remove  the  magistrates,  and  to  execute 
every  one  who  had  been  connected  with  the 
Marian  faction.  In  the  haste  of  the  time  he 
was  allowed  to  draw  the  list  of  the  proscribed 
himself,  and  to  enter  upon  it  both  his  open 
enemies  and  the  accomplices  of  his  crimes, 
whose  too  intimate  acquaintance  with  him 
he  had  reason  to  fear.  Aurius  perished,  and 
every  remaining  member  of  the  Aurian  kin- 
dred, Sextus  Vibrius  perished,  who  had 
been  his  instrument  in  hiding  the  traces  of 
Marcus  Aurius  and  murdering  him.  The  pro- 
scribed were  seized  and  killed  without  being 
allowed  to  speak  ;  and  thus  at  one  blow  Oppi- 
anicus was  able  to  rid  himself  of  every  one 
whose  vengeance  he  had  to  fear,  and  of  the  only 


THE  ROMAN  REPUBLIC.  283 

witness  by  whom  the  worst  of  his  crimes  could 
be  brousfht  home  to  him. 

For  his  services  to  Sylla  he  was  probably  re- 
warded further  out  of  the  estates  of  his  victims, 
and  by  a  series  of  enormous  crimes,  which  even 
in  that  bad  time  it  is  to  be  hoped  could  not  be 
easily  paralleled,  he  had  become  the  most 
opulent  and  most  powerful  citizen  of  his  native 
town, 

Oppianicus  had  obtained  all  that  he  had  de- 
sired, but  he  found,  as  all  mortals  find,  that 
the  enjoyment  had  been  in  the  pursuit — that 
the  prize  when  won  still  failed  to  give  perfect 
satisfaction.  Happiness  was  still  flying  before 
him — almost  within  his  grasp,  but  still  eluding 
it.  Perhaps  the  murder  of  her  husband,  her 
mother,  and  her  brothers,  may  have  sate  un- 
easily upon  Magia,  At  any  rate  he  had  grown 
weary  of  Magia,  She  too  was  now  cleared 
away  to  make  room  for  a  more  suitable  com- 
panion. On  the  death  of  Aurius  Melinus, 
Sassia  was  again  a  widow,  and  Oppianicus  be- 
came a  suitor  for  her  hand.  It  was  true  that 
he  had  killed  her  husband,  but  he  swore,  like 
Richard,  that  he  had  done  it  '  to  help  her  to  a 
better  husband,'  It  was  Sassia's  '  heavenly  face' 
which  had  set  him  on,  and  Sassia  listened,  not 
unfavorably.  There  were  difficulties,  however, 
which  had  first  to  be  removed.  Sassia  was 
rich,  and  in  a  position  to  make  conditions. 
Oppianicus  had  three  children,  whose  mothers 
she  may  have  disliked,  or  whom  she  expected 
that  she  would  find  in  her  way.  She  was  will- 
ing to  tolerate  the  eldest,  who  bore  his  father's 
name,  but  she  refused  to  marry  him  till  the  two 
little  ones  had  been  removed. 

The  horrible  woman  was  showing  herself  a 
suitable  mate  for  Oppianicus.  Her  wealth  her 
person,  perhaps  this  last  proof  of  the  hardiness 
of  disposition,  deierminecl  him  to  secure  her  on 
her  own  terms.  One  of  his  little  boys  was  being 
brought  up  with  his  mother  at  Theano.  He 
sent  for  the  child  to   Larino.     In  the   night  it 


284  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

was  taken  ill  and  died,  and  to  prevent  inquiry 
into  the  manner  of  its  death,  the  body  was 
burnt  before  dawn  the  next  morning.  Two 
days  after  the  other  little  boy  died  with  as 
mysterious  suddenness ;  and  Sassia  became 
Oppiniacus's  wife. 

Tiie  people  of  Larino  shuddered  and  mut- 
tered. They  could  not  challenge  the  favorite 
of  Sylla,  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  town,  who 
had  the  local  authority  in  his  hands  and  the 
confidence  of  the  Dictator  at  Rome  ;  but  they 
shrank  from  contact  with  him.  They  avoided 
both  him  and  his  wife  as  if  they  had  the 
plague.  Young  Cluentius  especially  held  aloof 
from  his  mother  more  sternly  than  ever,  and 
would  neither  speak  to  her  nor  see  her. 

At  length  Sylla  died  ;  the  middle  classes 
through  Italy  drew  their  breath  freely  again,  and 
at  Larino  as  elsewhere  the  people  could  venture 
to  make  their  voices  heard.  There  was  in  the 
town  an  ancient  and  venerable  college  of  Priests 
of  Mars,  a  sort  of  Cathedral  Chapter.  The 
priests  had  obtained  the  Roman  franchise  as  a 
result  of  the  Italian  war.  It  had  been  con- 
firmed to  them  by  Marius,  It  had  been  taken 
away  again  by  Sylla.  And  now  that  Sylla  was 
gone,  a  deputation  from  the  town  was  sent  to 
the  Senate  to  petition  for  its  restoration.  With 
this  deputation,  as  one  of  its  members,  went 
young  Aulus  Cluentius,  who  was  then  acquiring 
fame  as  a  public  speaker,  and  he  soon  attracted 
notice  at  Rome  by  his  vindication  of  the  rights 
of  the  Chapter.  Oppianicus,  who  had  been 
Sylla's  instrument  in  carrying  out  the  disfran- 
chisement in  I>arino,  had  his  own  good  reasons 
for  dreading  to  see  his  work  overthrown.  With 
the  restoration  of  political  liberty  municipal 
self-govennnent  would  be  restored  along  with 
it.  He  feared  Cluentius  on  personal  grounds 
as  well  as  political.  Me  saw  in  him  his  future 
accuser,  and  he  had  a  further  motive  of  another 
kind  for  wishing  to  destroy  him.  Cluentius  had 
not  yet  made  his  will,  for  he  would  not  leave 


THE  ROMAN  REPUBLIC.  285 

his  fortune  to  his  mother,  and  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  make  a  disposition  in  which  her 
name  should  not  be  mentioned.  In  the  absence 
of  a  will  she  was  his  heir-at-law.  It  was  but 
one  more  murder,  and  Oppianicus  would  at 
once  quit  himself  of  a  dangerous  antagonist, 
gratify  his  wife,  and  add  the  lands  of  the  Cluentii 
to  the  vast  estates  which  he  had  accumulated 
already. 

Cluentius  was  out  of  health.  Cleophantus, 
the  physician  by  whom  he  was  attended,  was  a 
man  of  eminence  and  character,  whom  it  was 
unsafe  to  approach  by  the  means  which  he  had 
used  so  successfully  in  the  poisoning  of  Dinea. 
But  Cleophantus  had  a  slave  who  worked  in  his 
laboratory,  whom  Oppianicus  calculated  on 
finding  corruptible,  and  the  assistant  by  whom 
medicines  are  made  up  is  in  such  cases  as 
useful  as  his  principal.  He  did  not  think  it 
prudent  to  appear  in  person,  but  a  patrician 
friend,  one  of  the  Fabricii,  undertook  the 
business  for  him  ;  and  Fabricius  felt  his  way 
with  the  slave  through  his  freedman  Scamander. 

Villains  have  an  instinct  for  recognizing  one 
another,  and  rarely  make  mistakes  in  the 
character  of  the  person  whom  they  address. 
The  necessary  tact,  however,  was  wanting  to 
Scamander  ;  and  in  the  class  of  wretches  who 
were  bought  like  sheep  in  the  market,  and 
might  be  flung  at  pleasure  into  the  fishponds 
to  feed  the  aristocrats'  lampreys,  a  degree  of 
virtue  was  found  at  last  which  was  to  bring 
Oppianicus's  atrocities  to  a  close.  Diogenes — 
so  the  slave  was  called — received  Scamander's 
overtures  with  apparent  acquiescence.  He 
listened,  drew  Scamander  on  to  reveal  the 
name  of  the  employers,  and  then  whispered 
the  story  to  his  master.  Cleophantus  carried 
it  to  Cluentius.  An  honest  senator,  Marcus 
Bibrius,  was  taken  into  counsel  ;  and  it  was 
agreed  that  Oppianicus  should  be  played  with 
till  he  had  committed  himself,  when  punish- 
ment could  at  last  overtake  him.      Diogenes 


286  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

kept  up  his  correspondence  with  Scamander, 
and  promised  to  administer  the  poison  as  soon 
as  he  was  provided  with  materials.  It  was 
arranged  that  Cluentius  should  purchase  Dio- 
genes, that  he  might  have  a  skilled  attendant 
to  wait -upon  him  in  his  illness.  The  conspiracy 
would  then  be  carried  on  under  Cluentius's 
own  roof,  where  the  proceedings  could  be  con- 
veniently watched,  and  conversations  be  over- 
heard. Oppianicus  was  out-manoeuvred  at 
last.  Both  he  and  Fabricius  were  tempted  to 
betray  themselves.  The  poison  was  conveyed 
to  Diogenes  ;  the  money  which  was  to  pay  for 
the  murder  was  brought  to  him,  and  received 
in  the  presence  of  concealed  witnesses.  The 
criminals  were  caught  red-handed,  without 
room  for  denial  or  concealment.  They  were 
seized  and  denounced,  and  brought  to  imme- 
diate trial. 

Horrible  crimes  have,  unfortunately,  been  so 
frequent  in  this  world  that  they  have  no  per- 
manent interest  for  us  ;  and,  unless  they  have 
been  embalmed  in  poetry,  or  are  preserved  by 
the  exceptional  genius  of  accomplished  his- 
torians, the  memory  of  them  rarely  survives  a 
single  generation.  The  tragedies  of  Larino 
would  have  passed  into  oblivion  with  the  lives 
of  those  who  had  witnessed  and  shuddered  at 
them.  Posterity,  if  it  cared  to  recollect,  would 
have  had  their  curiosity  and  their  sense  of 
justice  satisfied  if  they  could  have  learned  that 
the  chief  villain  was  detected  and  punished  at 
last  ;  and  to  revive  an  interest  in  a  detailed 
chapter  of  human  wickedness  after  nearly  two 
thousand  years  would  have  been  alike  super- 
fluous and  impossible.  The  story,  however, 
now  assumes  features  of  deeper  importance. 
Oppianicus  and  his  victims  are  nothing  to  us. 
'J'he  rise  and  fall  of  the  Roman  Commonwealth 
is  of  undying  consequence  to  the  political 
student ;  and  other  thousands  of  years  will  still 
have  to  pass  before  we  shall  cease  to  study 
the  most  minute  particulars  which  will  interpret 


TJIK  ROMAN  KEFUBLrC.  2Sj 

to  US  SO  remarkable  a  phenomenon.  Tlic 
judicial  investigation  into  the  crimes  of  Op- 
pianicus  was  to  form  an  illustration  of  the 
incurable  corrnplion  of  tlie  Roman  Senate  ; 
and  that  Senate's  most  brilliant  member — ■ 
better  known  to  English  schoolboys  than  the 
most  distinguished  modern  classic  (Kikero 
they  now  call  hin)  ;  but  we  are  too  old  to  le'arn 
the  new  nomenclature) — was  to  be  the  principal 
instrument  in  exposing  it. 

Criminal  trials  at  Rome  were  conducted  be- 
fore a  body  of  judges  or  jurymen,  the  selection 
of  whom  had  been  one  of  the  chief  subjects  of 
contention  during  the  recent  political  struggles. 
The  privileged  orders  affected  to  fear  that 
justice  would  be  degraded  if  the  administration 
of  it  was  extended  to  persons  who  were  incom- 
petent for  so  honorable  an  office.  The  people 
complained  that  their  lives  and  properties  were 
unsafe  in  the  hands  of  proud,  extravagant,  and 
venal  aristocrats.  The  Senators  declared  that 
if  members  of  their  own  order  had  not  been 
always  pure,  the  middle  classes  would  be  found 
immeasurablv  worse.  The  middle  classes, 
without  laying  claims  to  superior  virtue,  pro- 
tested that  the  Senators  had  already  descended 
to  the  lowest  depths  of  the  abyss  of  dishonesty. 

That  the  office  of  a  judge,  at  any  rate,  might 
be  made  one  of  the  most  lucrative  situations 
which  the  State  had  to  offer  became  apparent 
in  a  prosecution  which  happened  about  the 
same  time  of  the  Praetor  Verres  for  the  plunder 
of  Sicily.  In  the  trial  of  Verres  it  was  proved 
that  the  governor  of  a  Roman  province  under 
the  Republic.  looked  on  his  period  of  office  as 
an  opportunity  of  making  his  fortune  by  ex- 
tortion and  the  public  sale  of  justice.  To  be 
successful,  he  must  carry  off  three  times  as 
much  booty  as  he  expected  to  be  allowed  to 
retain.  A  third  had  to  be  bestowed  in  buying 
the  goodwill  of  the  consuls,  tribunes,  and  other 
magistrates  ;  a  third  in  corrupting  the  juries, 
when  he  was  called  to  account  by  the  pillaged 


288  HISTORICAL  ESSA  VS. 

provincials;  the  remaining  part  only  he  might 
calculate  on  keeping  for  himself. 

The  Court  which  was  to  try  the  case  of  the 
Larinates  was  composed  of  thirty-two  Senators. 
Gaius  Gracchus  had  granted  the  jury-right  to 
the  Equites  ;  but  it  had  again  been  taken  from 
them  by  Sylla.  The  judges  were  now  ex- 
clusively patricians,  the  purest  blood  of  which 
Rome  had  to  boast.  Scamander,  Fabricius, 
and  Oppianicus  were  indicted  successivly 
for  conspiring  the  murder  of  Cluentius.  The 
prisoners  were  tried  separately.  Though  rumor 
had  caught  hold  of  some  features  of  the  story, 
the  circumstances  were  generally  unknown, 
Oppianicus,  through  his  wealth  and  connec- 
tions, had  secured  powerful  patrons  ;  and 
Cicero,  who  rarely  took  part  in  prosecutions, 
was  retained  in  the  first  instance  to  defend 
Scamander. 

Publius  Canutius  opened  the  case  for  Cluen- 
tius ;  and  Cicero,  though  he  exerted  himself 
to  the  utmost,  very  soon  discovered  that  he 
had  a  bad  cause.  The  evidence  was  absolutely 
conclusive.  Scamander  was  condemned, 
and  Fabricius  was  brought  to  the  bar.  Cicero 
withdrew  from  the  case  and  contented  himself 
with  watching  it.  Fabricius's  brother,  Cepasius, 
took  his  place  as  advocate  ;  but  with  no  better 
success.  Fabricius,  too,  was  convicted,  but 
with  a  slight  difference  in  the  form  of  the 
result.  A  unanimous  verdict  was  given  against 
Scamander  ;  a  single  Senator,  called  Stalenus, 
voted  for  the  acquittal  of  Fabricius.  There 
was  no  more  doubt  of  his  guilt  than  of  his 
freedman's.  The  evidence  against  them  both 
was  the  same.  Stalenus  had  not  been  bribed, 
for  Fabricius  was  poor  ;  but  he  intended  to  in- 
timate to  the  rich  Oppianicus  that  he  was  open 
to  an  arrangement  when  his  own  turn  should 
come  on. 

Stalenus  was  a  man  of  consequence.  He 
had  been  qux'Stor,  and  aspired  to  the  higher 
offices  of  State.     He  had  obtained  some  note- 


THE  ROMAN  KErUBLIC. 


289 


riety  in  a  recent  civil  case  in  which  one  of  the 
parties  was  a  certain  Safinius  Atella.  Safinius 
had  the  worst  of  the  aiyunient,  and  Stalenus 
had  boasted  that  for  a  round  sum  of  money  he 
could  purchase  a  verdict  notwithstanding.  The 
money  was  given  to  him,  but  Safinius  lost  his 
cause,  and  ill-natured  persons  had  whispered 
that  Stalenus  had  kept  it  for  himself.  Such  a 
transaction,  however,  if  successful  and  un- 
detected, might  pass  for  a  stroke  of  cleverness. 
At  all  events  the  suspicions  attached  to  it  had 
not  interfered  with  the  further  employment  of 
this  ingenious  young  nobleman.  He  was 
merely  observed,  and  anything  singular  in  his 
conduct  was  set  down  to  its  right  motive. 

Oppianicus's  case  might  well  be  considered 
desperate.  Scamander  and  Fabricius  had  been 
accessories  only  to  a  single  attempt  at  murder. 
The  past  history  of  Oppianicus  had  probably 
been  alluded  to  generally  in  the  preliminary 
trials.  He  would  stand  at  the  bar  an  object  of 
general  abhorrence  for  various  other  enormities, 
and  the  proofs  which  had  been  sufficient  to 
condemn  his  accomplices  \\ould  tell  with  ten- 
fold force  against  their  instigator,  whose  past 
career  had  been  so  dark.  In  the  vote  of  Stal- 
enus only  some  glimmer  of  hope  remained. 
The  Court  adjourned  for  a  few  days.  In  the 
interval  Oppianicus  made  Stalenus's  acquaint- 
ance, and  they  soon  understood  one  another. 

Stalenus  told  him  frankly  that  his  situation 
was  a  difficult  one,  and  would  probably  be  ex- 
pensive. The  judges  who  had  condemned  the 
other  prisoners  would  commit  manifest  perjury 
if  they  acquitted  Oppianicus.  Public  feeling 
being  excited,  they  would  be  exposed  to  general 
opprobrium,  and  they  would  require  to  be  well 
paid  for  their  services.  Still,  however,  bethought 
it  might  be  managed.  He  knew  his  men,  and 
he  considered  that  he  could  secure  fifteen  votes 
out  of  the  thirtv-two,  which  in  addition  to  his 
own  would  be  sufficient.  Money  only  was 
necessary  :  each  vote  would  require  ;^400. 


290 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


Oppianicus's  fortune  would  be  of  little  use 
to  him  if  he  was  convicted.  Being  a  Roman 
citizen,  he  was  not  liable  to  a  sentence  of  death 
from  a  criminal  court,  but  exile  and  a  fine 
amounting  nearly  to  confiscation  were  as  bad 
or  possibly  worse.  He  assented  to  Stalenus's 
terms,  and  paid  into  his  hands  ;!^64oo. 

It  was  understood  by  this  time  that  a  nego- 
tiation with  the  prisoner  was  going  forward. 
Stalenus  had  felt  his  way,  dropping  hints  here 
and  there  in  whatever  quarter  they  were  likely 
to  be  operative,  and  at  length  the  corruptible 
fifteen  had  given  conditional  assurances  that 
they  might  be  relied  on.  But  the  terms,  as  he 
expected,  were  high ;  very  little  would  be  left 
for  himself ;  and  he  began  to  reflect  that  with 
perfect  safety  he  might  keep  the  whole  of  it. 
The  honest  part  of  the  jury  would,  he  thought, 
undoubtedly  vote  for  a  convictior.  Those  who 
had  agreed  to  sell  their  consciences  would  be 
so  angry  if  they  were  now  disappointed  that 
he  might  count  on  them  with  equal  certainty, 
and  it  would  be  in  vain  that  after  a  verdict  of 
guilty  such  a  wretch  as  Oppianicus  would  appeal 
to  public  opinion.  No  one  would  believe  him, 
no  one  would  pity  him.  Thus  the  night  before 
the  trial  came  on  he  informed  his  friends  upon 
the  jury  that  Oppianicus  had  changed  his  mind, 
and  that  no  money  was  forth-coming.  They 
were  as  exasperated  as  he  hoped  to  find  them. 
He  was  himself  not  suspected,  and  they  met 
the  next  day  in  court  with  a  most  virtuous  res- 
olution that  justice  should  not  be  balked  of 
its  object. 

The  voting  in  a  Roman  trial  was  either  open 
or  secret,  as  the  Court  might  decide  for  itself. 
Oppianicus  not  relying  too  perfectly  on  his 
friends,  and  anxious  not  to  be  cheated  of  the 
wares  for  which  he  had  paid,  demanded  that 
each  judge  should  give  his  verdict  by  word. of 
mouth.  The  tribune  Quinctius,  who  was  sec- 
retly his  friend,  supported  him,  and  his  request 
was    agreed   to.     Every    one    was   aware    that 


THE  ROMAN  REPUBLIC. 


291 


there  had  been  bribery,  and  the  members  of 
the  jury  who  were  open  to  bribes  were  generally 
well  known.  It  was,  of  course,  assumed  that 
they  would  vote  for  an  acquittal,  and  Stalenus 
and  his  friends  were  observed  with  contempt- 
uous curiosity,  but  without  a  doubt  of  what 
their  judgment  would  be. 

It  happened  that  Stalenus  was  the  first  to 
vote,  and  two  of  his  intimate  associates  were 
the  second  and  third.  To  the  astonishment  of 
every  one,  all  three  without  the  slightest  hesi- 
tation voted  guilty.  The  rest  of  the  judges,  or 
rather  the  respectable  portion  of  them,  were 
utterly  bewildered.  The  theory  of  corruption 
implies  that  men  who  take  bribes  will  generally 
fulfil  their  contract,  nor  again  do  men  usually 
take  bribes  to  vote  according  to  their  real  con- 
victions. They  were  assured  that  Stalenus  had 
been  corrupted  by  some  one  to  give  a  false 
verdict.  They  thought  he  had  been  corrupted 
by  Oppianicus  ;  but  he  had  voted  against  Op- 
pianicus ;  he  had  voted  for  Cluentius, — there- 
fore it  seemed  he  must  have  been  bribed  by 
Cluentius,  and  Oppianicus  might  be  innocent 
after  all.  Thus  argued  the  outside  public 
almost  universally,  having  heard  the  story  but 
imperfectly.  Thus  argued  even  a  section  of 
the  judges  themselves,  and  in  their  confusion 
five  of  the  more  honest  of  them  actually  voted 
for  Oppianicus's  acquittal.  The  larger  number 
concluded  at  last  that  they  must  go  by  the 
evidence.  Stalenus  and  his  friends  might  have 
taken  money  from  Cluentius.  Cluentius  might 
have  been  afraid  to  trust  himself  entirely  to  the 
justice  of  his  cause.  But  corruption  could  not 
alter  the  truth.  Oppianicus  was  unquestion- 
ably guilty,  and  he  was  condemned  by  a  large 
majority. 

He  for  his  part  was  banished,  clamoring  that 
he  was  betrayed,  but  unable,  as  Stalenus  ex- 
pected, to  obtain  a  remission  of  his  sentence. 
In  modern  eyes  such  a  punishment  was  im- 
measurably too    lenient.     To   a    Roman   who 


292 


HISTORICAL  ESSA  YS. 


wanted  courage  to  end  his  misfortunes  with  his 
own  hand,  exile  was  held  to  be  the  most  terrible 
of  calamities.  Caesar  pleaded  against  the  exe- 
cution of  the  accomplices  of  Catiline,  that  death 
ended  all  things.  He  would  have  them  live 
and  suffer.  'Life,'  said  Cicero  on  the  present 
occasion,  '  was  worse  than  death  to  Oppianicus. 
No  one  believed  any  longer  the  old  wives'  fable 
of  Tartarus.  Death  would  be  but  a  happy  re- 
lease to  him.'  He  left  Rome  to  wander  about 
Italy,  as  if  marked  with  a  curse.  Sassia  fol- 
lowed him  to  torment  him  with  her  reproaches 
and  infidelities.  One  day  as  he  was  riding  his 
horse  threw  him.  He  was  mortally  injured  and 
died. 

So  ended  Oppianicus.  So,  however,  did  not 
end  the  consequences  of  his  various  villanies. 
Political  passions  were  again  rising.  The  people 
in  Rome  and  out  of  it  were  clamoring  to  the 
skies  against  the  iniquities  of  the  Senate.  The 
story  went  abroad  that  a  senatorial  jury  had 
again  been  bribed  ;  and  being  without  detailed 
knowledge  of  the  case,  the  Roman  populace 
rushed  naturally  to  the  conclusion  that  an 
innocent  man  had  been  condemned.  Oppi- 
anicus had  protested  against  the  verdict,  and 
had  denounced  his  judges.  It  was  enough. 
The  verdict  was  indisputably  corrupt,  and  a 
corrupt  verdict,  as  a  matter  of  course;  must  be 
a  false  verdict. 

Quinctius  the  tribune,  Oppianicus's  friend, 
encouraged  the  agitation.  It  was  an  opportunity 
not  to  be  neglected  of  bringing  the  Senate  into 
disrepute.  Thrice  he  harangued  the  General 
Assembly  in  the  Forum.  He  insisted  that  the 
degraded  patricians  should  be  stripped  once 
more  of  the  privileges  which  they  abused. 
Cluentius's  name  became  a  by-word.  He  who 
in  his  humble  way  had  been  the  champion  of 
his  own  townspeople  was  identified  with  the 
liated  senatorial  monopoly.  So  furious  were 
the  people  that  for  eight  years,  Cicero  says, 
they  would  not  so  much  as  listen  to  a  word 


THE  ROMAN  REPUBLIC.  295 

that  could  be  said  for  him.  Every  senator  who 
had  voted  for  Oppianicus's  condemnation  was 
prosecuted  under  the  Jury  Laws.  Some  were 
fined,  some  were  expelled  from  the  Senate  by 
the  Censors.  One  of  them,  Caius  Egnatius, 
was  disinherited  by  his  father.  The  Senate 
itself  was  invited  to  condemn  its  own  members. 
Not  daring  to  refuse,  the  Senate  saved  its  con- 
science by  a  wise  generality,  and  passed  a 
resolution  that  any  person  or  persons  who  had 
been  instrumental  in  corrupting  public  justice 
had  been  guilty  of  a  heinous  offence.  Finally 
Cluentius  himself  was  brought  to  trial,  and  so 
hot  was  public  feeling  against  him  that  Cicero 
was  obliged  to  confine  his  defence  to  a  legal 
technicality.  The  law,  he  said,  was  for  the 
restraint  of  corruption  in  the  juries.  The 
juries  under  Sylla's  constitution  could  consist 
of  senators  only,  and  Cluentius  being  an  Eques, 
the  law  could  not  touch  him. 

Gradually  the  outcry  died  away,  melting  into 
the  general  steam  of  indignation  which  in  a 
few  years  swept  away  the  constitution,  and 
under  new  forms  made  justice  possible  again. 
But  the  final  act  of  the  Cluentian  drama  had 
still  to  be  played  out.  Again  Cluentius  was 
to  appear  before  a  tribunal  of  Roman  judges. 
Again  Cicero  was  to  defend  him — no  longer 
under  a  quibble,  but  on  the  merits  of  the  whole 
case,  into  which  at  last  it  was  possible  to  enter. 

From  the  speech  which  Cicero  delivered  on 
this  occasion  we  have  gathered  our  story.  It 
is  not  a  favorable  specimen  of  his  oratorical 
power.  There  is  no  connection  in  the  events. 
There  is  no  order  of  time.  We  are  hurried 
from  date  to  date,  from  place  to  place.  The 
same  person  is  described  under  different  names  ; 
the  same  incident  in  different  words.  The 
result  is  a  mass  of  threads  so  knotted,  twisted, 
and  entangled,  that  only  patient  labor  can  sort 
them  out  into  intelligible  arrangement. 

What  Cicero  lacks  in  method,  however,  he 
makes  up  in  earnestness.     He   was  evidently 


294 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS 


supremely  affected  by  the  combination  of  atro- 
cities and  misunderstandincrs  bv  which  an  in- 
nocent,  well-deserving  man  was  likely  to  be 
overwhelmed. 

The  various  lovers  of  Sassia  had  been  either 
murdered  or  had  died,  or  had  deserted  her. 
She  had  lost  much  of  her  ill-gained  fortunes, 
She  had  grown  too  old  for  the  further  indul- 
gence of  her  pleasant  vices.  One  desire  alone 
remained,  and  had  devoured  the  rest — a  desire 
for  revenge  upon  her  son  Cluentius.  In  the 
prejudiced  condition  of  public  feeling  at  Rome, 
any  wily  accusation  against  him  might  be  ex- 
pected to  obtain  a  hearing.  Having  escaped 
the  prosecution  for  the  bribery  of  the  judges, 
he  was  charged  with  having  murdered  one  of 
his  friends,  whose  property  he  hoped  to  inherit. 
The  attempt  was  clumsy  and  it  failed.  The 
friend  was  proved  to  have  died  where  Cluentius 
could  have  had  no  access  to  him ;  and  a 
nephew,  and  not  Cluentius,  was  his  heir.  The 
next  accusation  was  of  having  tried  to  poison 
the  surviving  son  of  Oppianicus.  Cluentius 
and  the  younger  Oppianicus  had  been  together 
at  a  festival  of  Larino.  Another  youth  who 
was  also  present  there  had  died  a  few  days 
later,  and  it  was  alleged  that  he  had  drunk 
by  mistake  from  a  cup  which  had  been  prepared 
for  Sassia's  stepson.  But  again  the  evidence 
broke  down.  There  was  no  proof  that  the 
death  was  caused  by  poison,  or  that  Cluenitius 
was  in  any  way  connected  with  it. 

The  accursed  woman,  though  twice  baffled, 
would  not  abandon  her  object.  In  both  in- 
stances proof  of  malice  had  been  wanting. 
Cluentius  had  no  object  in  perpetrating  either 
of  the  crimes  of  which  she  had  accused  him. 
If  he  had  no  grudge  against  the  young  Op- 
pianicus, however,  he  had  undoubtedly  hated 
his  father,  and  she  professed  to  have  discover- 
ed that  the  father  liad  not  died,  as  had  been 
reported,  by  the  fall  from  his  horse,  but  had 
been   poisoned  by  a  cake  which  had  been  ad- 


THE  ROMAN  REPUBLIC.  295 

ministered  to  him  at  Cluentius's  instigation. 
The  method  in  which  Sassia  went  to  work  to 
make  out  her  case  throws  a  fresh  and  hideous 
light  on  tlie  Roman  administration  of  justice 
in  the  last  days  of  liberty.  She  produced  two 
witnesses  who  were  both  slaves.  To  one  of 
them,  Nicostratus,  a  Greek,  she  owed  an  old 
grudge.  He  had  belonged  to  Oppianicus  the 
elder,  and  had  revealed  certain  infidelities  of 
hers  which  had  led  to  inconvenience.  The 
other,  Strato,  was  the  slave  of  a  doctor  who 
had  attended  Oppianicus  after  his  accident. 
Since  neither  of  these  men  were  willing  to  say 
what  she  required  them  to  say  of  their  own 
accord,  she  demanded  according  to  custom 
that  they  should  be  tortured.  The  Roman  law 
did  not  acknowledge  any  rights  in  these  human 
chattels  :  a  slave  on  the  day  of  his  bondage 
ceased  to  be  a  man.  Nicostratus  and  Strato 
were  racked  till  the  executioners  were  weary, 
but  nothing  could  be  extracted  from  them.  A 
distinguished  advocate  who  was  present,  and 
was  not  insensible  to  pity,  said  that  the  slaves 
were  being  tortured  not  to  make  them  tell  the 
truthj  but  to  make  them  lie.  The  court  took 
the  same  view,  and  they  were  released. 

Once  more  Sassia  was  defeated,  but  she 
waited  her  opportunity.  Three  years  later, 
the  orator  Hortensius,  a  general  protector  of 
rogues,  was  elected  to  the  consulate.  The 
vindictiveness  with  which  she  had  come  for- 
ward as  the  prosecutrix  of  her  own  son  had 
injured  her  cause.  She  made  one  more  effort, 
and  this  time  she  prevailed  on  the  young 
Oppianicus,  who  had  meanwhile  married  her 
daughterj  to  appear  in  her  place.  She  had 
purchased  Strato  after  his  escape  from  the 
tt)rture,  and  had  power  of  life  and  death  over 
him.  He  had  murdered  a  fellow  slave  ;  and 
it  was  alleged  that  when  he  confessed  to  this 
crime  he  had  confessed  to  the  other  also.  He 
was  crucified,  and  to  prevent  his  telling  in- 
convenient  truths  upon   the  cross,  his  tongue 


296 


HISTORICAL  ESS  A  YS. 


was  cut  out  before  he  was  nailed  upon  it.  On 
the  strength  of  his  pretended  deposition  a 
criminal  process  was  once  more  instituted 
against  Cluentius  before  a  Roman  jury.  The 
story  had  by  this  time  become  so  notorious, 
and  the  indignation  of  the  provinces  had  been 
so  deeply  roused,  that  deputations  from  every 
town  in  the  south  of  Italy  came  to  the  Capital 
to  petition  in  Cluentius's  favor.  How  the  trial 
ended  is  unknown.  It  may  be  hoped  that  he 
was  acquitted — but  it  is  uncertain.  Innocent 
men  have  suffered  by  millions  in  this  world. 
As  many  guilty  wretch&s  have  escaped,  and 
seemed  to  triumph  ;  but  the  vengeance  which 
follows  upon  evil  acts  does  not  sleep  because 
individuals  are  wronged.  The  penalty  is  ex- 
acted to  the  last  farthing  from  the  community 
which  permits  injustice  to  be  done.  And  the 
Republican  Commonwealth  of  Rome  was  fast 
filling  the  measure  of  its  iniquities.  In  another 
half-century  perjured  juries  and  corrupted 
magistrates  had  finished  their  work  ;  the  world 
could  endure  them  no  longer,  and  the  free 
institutions  which  had  been  the  admiration  of 
mankind  were  buried  under  the  throne  of  the 
Caesars. 


LUCIAN. 


The  men  of  .genius  who  had  the  misfortune, 
under  the  Liter  Roman  Emperors,  to  be  blind 
to  the  truth  of  Christianity  have  been  punished 
by  a  neglect  which  they  do  not  wholly  deserve. 
With  Tacitus  the  era  closes  in  which  a  Roman 
of  ability  has  been  allowed  to  have  shut  his 
eyes  to  the  light  without  wilful  sin.  Thence- 
forward all  men  of  intellectual  reputation  who 
remained  unconverted  have  been  held  guilty 
by  Christendom  of  deliberate  unbelief.  Their 
writings  have  been  thrown  aside  as  either  mis- 
chievous  or  useless.  The  age  itself  and  the 
character  of  their  contemporaries  has  been  left 
to  be  described  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  ; 
and  unless  for  special  reasons,  or  by  exception- 
al and  curious  students,  the  last  representJi- 
tives  of  the  old  classical  literature  remain  gen- 
erally unread.  Nor  is  this  neglect  diminishing 
or  likely  to  diminish.  'VVhen  modern  books 
were  scarce,  any  writing  which  had  value  in  it 
was  prized  at  Us  true  worth.  Plutarch  was 
Shakespeare's  chief  authority  for  his  Greeks 
and  Romans.  Men  of  culture,  who  were  weary 
of  the  quarrels  between  Catholics  and  Protes- 
tants, preferred  the  calmer  atmosphere  of  Mar- 
cus Aurelius  and  Epictetus.  The  lofty  spirit- 
ualism of  the  Alexandrian  Platonists  was  a 
favorite  food  with  the  Cambridge  philosophers 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  exacting  de- 
mands of  modern  literature,  however,  leave 
inadequate  leisure  for    the  study  of  even  the 


■298  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

most  accomplished  of  the  classical  writers. 
Modern  languages  encroach  more  and  more  on 
the  old  domain  of  Greek  and  Latin,  and  either 
divide  the  schools  with  them  or  threaten  to  ex- 
pel them  altogether.  The  ready  quotation 
from  Horace  has  disappeared  from  society  and 
almost  from  the  Senate  house.  Still  less  of 
leisure  has  been  left  for  the  less  polished,  if 
not  less  interesting,  writers  of  the  succeeding 
centuries ;  and  except  an  occasional  metaphysi- 
cian, who  makes  excursions  into  Proclus  or 
Plotinus,  or  an  anti-Christian  controversialist, 
who  goes  for  assistance  to  the  fragments  of 
Celsus  or  Porphyry,  it  is  rare'  that  any  one 
wanders  aside  into  the  pages  of  authors  who 
are  looked  on  as  degenerate  classics  of  danger- 
ous tendency,  without  the  literary  merit  which 
might  compensate  for  their  spiritual  deficiency. 

Our  indifference  costs  us  more  than  we  are 
aware  of.  It  is  supremely  desirable  that  we 
should  be  acquainted  with  the  age  in  which 
Christianity  became  the  creed  of  civilized  man- 
kind, and  ue  learn  but  half  the  truth  from  the 
Christian  Fathers.  Whether  we  regard  Chris- 
tianity as  a  miracle  from  without,  or  as  devel- 
oped from  within,  out  of  the  conscience  and 
intellect  of  man,  we  perceive,  at  any  rate,  that 
it  grew  by  natural  causes,  that  it  commended 
itself  by  argument  and  example,  that  it  was 
received  or  rejected  according  to  the  rrioral 
and  mental  condition  of  those  to  whom  it  was 
addressed.  We  shall  understand  the  history 
of  its  triumph  only  when  we  see  the  heathen 
world  as  the  heathen  world  saw  itself.  The 
most  indispensable  guides  in  such  an  inquiry 
are  the  writers  who  remained  unconvinced. 
Nor  is  it  uninteresting  to  see  why  they  were 
unconvinced,  or  how,  when  they  noticed  its 
existence,  the  new  creed  appeared  to  them. 

We  invite  our  readers  to  forget  their  preju- 
dices, and  to  accompany  us,  so  far  as  our  few 
pages  will  allow,  on  an  expedition  into  Lucian. 
Every  one  has  heard  of  Lucian's  name  ;  nine 


LUC  IAN. 


299 


people  out  of  ten,  if  asked  who  Lucian  was, 
would  be  ready  with  an  answer  that  he  was  a 
scoffer  and  an  atheist,  and  in  that  answer 
would  show  decisively  that  they  had  never  read 
a  page  of  him.  The  censure  and  the  ignorance 
rise  from  the  same  source.  On  the  strength 
of  a  Dialogue,  which  has  been  proved  to  be 
spurious,  Lucian  has  been  denounced  as  a  di- 
rect enemy  of  Christianity.  Lucian  is  supposed 
to  have  encouraged  with  his  satires  the  hatred 
which  took  shape  intiie  persecutions.  He  has 
been,  therefore,  spoken  of  systematically  as  a 
special  servant  of  Satan,  as  a  person  whose 
company  decent  people  were  bound  to  avoid. 

Yet  Lucian,  in  his  genuine  writings,  men- 
tions the  Christians  but  once,  and  then  only  as 
a  simple-minded  sect  whose  credulity  made 
them  the  easy  dupes  of  quacks  and  charlatans. 
He  had  looked  at  Christianity,  and  had  passed 
it  by  as  one  of  the  thousand  illusions  which 
were  springing  like  mushrooms  in  the  hotbed 
of  Greco-Asiatic  speculation.  The  abomina- 
tions of  paganism  and  the  cant  of  the  popular 
philosophers  were  the  real  objects  of  his  de- 
testation ;  and,  so  far  as  concerned  the  com- 
mon enemy,  the  Fathers  and  Lucian  were  fight- 
ing on  the  same  side.  Yet  it  is  doubtful 
whether,  had  they  known  him  as  he  was,  he 
would  have  been  regarded  as  a  welcome  all}', 
or  otherwise  as  anything  but  intolerable  to 
them.  The  lightning-like  mockery  with  which 
Lucian  strikes  at  folly  and  imposture  was  un- 
favorable, however  legitimate  its  objects,  to 
the  generation  of  a  believing  spirit.  To  the 
Fathers  pagan  cultus  was  a  worship  of  devils, 
to  Lucian  it  was  a  dishonest  or  base  affectation  ; 
and  his  dissecting  knife  cuts  occasionally  into 
theories  where  their  own  nerves  were  suscepti- 
ble. His  detestation  of  falsehood  was  a  pas- 
sion. No  KoXov  i/^eSSo?,  no  edifying  false- 
hood, no  ideal  loveliness  or  supposed  benefi- 
cent influence  to  be  derived  from  illusion  could 
blind  his  judgment  or  seduce  his  allegiance  to 


300 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


truth.     He  lived   in  an  age  when   the   estab- 
lished creeds  were  a  mockery,  and  philosophy 
was  a  juggle  of  words;  when  itinerant thauma- 
turgists,  like  Proteus  or  Apollonius,  were  the 
favorites  of  emperors,  and  were  regarded  by 
millions  upon  millions  as  representatives  or  in- 
carnations of  the  gods  ;  while  politicians  and 
men  of  the  world  were  laboring  in   desperate 
conservatism  to  keep  the  pagan  religion  on  its 
feet,  for  fear  society  should  fall  to  pieces  if  it 
was  openly  confessed  to  be  untrue.     With  this 
ignoble  terror,  and  with  the  quackery  and  dis- 
honesty which    were  the   inevitable  fruit  of  it, 
Lucian  lived  in   perpetual   war,  striking  at  it 
with   a   pungency  of  satire    which  is  perhaps 
without   its   equal   in   literature.     He  has   the 
keenness  of   Voltaire,  the  moral  indignation, 
disguised  behind  his  jests,  of  Swift ;  but  while 
Lucian,   no  more  than  Swift  or  Voltaire,   will 
spare  the  scoundrel  any  single  lash  which  is 
his  due,  he,  like    .Shakespeare,  has  still  a  pity 
for  the  poor  wretch,  as  if  to  be  a  scoundrel  was 
itself  the  sharpest  of  penalties.  When  Charon's 
boat-load  of  ghosts  is  carried  before  the  judg- 
ment bar  of  Rhadamanthus,  a  powerful  noble- 
man is  found  among  them  who  had  exhausted 
the  list  of  possible  human  depravities — cruelty 
and  avarice,  gluttony  and  lust  indulged  beyond 
the  limits  of  nature.     Witness  after  witness  de- 
poses  to  the  dreadful  truth.     His  bed  tells  its 
tale  of  horrors.     His  lamp,  unable  to  say  what 
had  been   done  in   daylight  when  it  was  not 
present,  details   its  catalogue  of  midnight  or- 
gies.    P^ach  crime,  discovered  or  undiscovered, 
was  supposed  to  leave  its  scars  upon  the  soul. 
The  prisoner,  being  ordered  to  strip,  discloses 
a  person  so  wealed  and  marked  that  the  natural 
substance  of  it  was  nowhere  visible.     Rhada- 
manthus exclaims  in  horror  for  some  new  pun- 
ishment adequate  to  such  enormous  villany.  A 
poor  cobbler  standing  by  suggests  that  justice 
will    be  vindicated  sufficiently  if   the    cup   of 
Lethe,  wiiich    each    shade    was   permitted   to 


LUC  I  AN.  301 

drink  as  he  passed  from  the  dread  tribunal, 
should  in  this  instance  be  withheld.  To  re- 
member what  he  had  done  in  life  would  be  re- 
tribution enough  for  the  worst  of  criminals, 
without  further  torture. 

Dut  there  is  an  interest  in  Lucian  beyond 
his  satire  and  beyond  Jiis  literary  excellence. 
Lucian  more  than  any  other  writer,  pagan  or 
Christian,  enables  us  to  see  what  human  beings 
were,  how  they  lived,  what  they  thought,  felt, 
said,  and  did  in  the  centuries  when  paganism 
was  expiring  and  Christianity  was  taking  the 
place  of  it. 

The  kingdom  of  heaven,  it  was  said,  was 
like  a  grain  of  mustard  seed.  The  world  of 
spirit  and  the  world  of  matter  are  alike  full  of 
such  seeds,  full  of  the  germs  of  living  organisms, 
waiting  for  the  fitting  conditions  in  which  they 
can  take  root  and  grow.  The  germ,  as  it  un- 
folds, gathers  its  substance  out  of  the  soil  in 
which  it  is  rooted,  and  out  of  \\\q.  atmosphere 
which  it  inhales  ;  and  it  is  to  that  soil,  to  that 
atmosphere,  and  to  the  elements  of  which  they 
are  composed,  that  we  must  look,  if  we  would 
understand  how  and  why  at  any  particular  time 
a  new  form  of  organized  life  makes  its  appear- 
ance. Critics  have  w-earicd  themselves  in 
searching  for  the  origin  of  the  Gospels,  and 
arrive  at  nothing.  They  would  discover  the 
secret  of  the  life  of  Christianity,  and  they  are 
like  children  digging  at  the  roots  of  a  plant  to 
discover  how  and  why  it  grows.  The  plant 
withers  when  the  root  is  exposed,  but  the  net- 
work of  entangled  fibre  tells  them  nothing 
which  they  desired  to  know.  The  historical 
facts  recorded  in  the  Gospels  formed  the  tissue 
of  the  seed  out  of  which  the  Christian  Church 
was  developed,  but  the  tissue  of  the  seed  is 
not  the  life  of  it.  How  the  Gospels  were  writ- 
ten, or  when  or  by  whom,  is  concealed,  as  the 
grain  when  growing  is  concealed  in  the  earth. 
The  life  of  the  Church  was  a  new  ideal,  a  new 
spiritual    principle  to   which  humanity  turned 


202  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

for  deliverance  from  the  poison  of  the  estab- 
lished theology  and  philosophy.  In  Lucian  we 
learn  what  that  theology  and  that  philosophy 
was,  and  how  the  belief  or  want  of  belief  in 
them  was  affecting  intellect  and  morals.  He 
has  been  called  an  apostate  Christian.  It  is 
perfectly  evident  that  he  neither  had  been  a 
Christian,  nor,  with  such  a  mind  as  he  possessed 
and  at  the  age  at  which  he  lived,  ever  could 
have  been  a  Christian.  Two  centuries  later, 
when  Christianity  had  become  the  sole  authori- 
tative teacher  of  practical  morality,  Lucian 
would  have  examined  with  reverential  interest 
a  doctrine  which  was  exerting  so  excellent  an 
influence  over  the  education  of  the  human  race. 
In  point  of  fact  he  never  gave  to  it  more  than 
passing  attention.  To  him  it  was  but  one  of 
manv  strusrgling  sects,  an  unintelligible  offshoot 
of  Judaism,  He  was  constitutionally  incredulous 
and  the  atmosphere  of  lies  with  which  he  was  en- 
veloped hardened  further  his  natural  distrust  of 
new  opinions.  Tales  of  miracles  and  mysteries, 
so  far  from  acting  as  inducements  to  command 
his  attention,  would  only  be  occasions  of  sus- 
picion. Had  he  even  looked  seriously  into 
the  Christian  formulas  of  faith,  and  had  found 
himself  invited  to  believe  that  the  child  of  a 
Galilean  artisan  had  loo  years  before  been 
born  of  a  virgin,  had  worked  miracles,  had 
been  put  to  death,  had  gone  down  to  Hades 
and  had  again  returned  to  life,  he  would  have 
answered  that  he  could  match  the  story  by  a 
hundred  parallels  from  his  own  contemporary 
experience.  Each  generation  produced  its  own 
swarm  of  pretenders  to  supernatural  powers. 
Life  itself  would  be  gone  before  he  could  have 
examined  minutely  into  the  claims  of  each  of 
them.  An  aged  student  in  one  of  his  Dialogues 
confessed  to  have  spent  60  years  in  comparing 
the  schools  of  philosophy,  still  hoping  that  he 
would  find  the  truth  and  still  unable  to  decide 
in  which  of  them  the  truth  was  to  be  found. 
Jyucian  tells  him   that  he  has  missed  his  road, 


LUC  I  AN.  ^o^ 

that  life  is  action  not  speculation,  that  one  good 
deed  is  better  than  a  thousand  syllogisms  :  and 
in  some  such  terms  it  is  likely  he  would  have 
replied  also,  had  Justin  Martyr  attempted  to 
make  a  convert  of  him. 

But  he  was  not  careless  in  such  matters.  He 
had  taken  exceptional  pains  to  inquire  into  the 
claims  and  expose  the  impostures  of  the  pre- 
tenders of  his  own  lime. 

A  sketch  of  the  character  of  Alexander  of 
Abonotichus,  an  earlier  Cagliostro,  is  dedicated 
to  his  friend  Celsus,  the^ame  Celsus  who, 
after  his  death,  was  attacked  by  Origen.  More 
interesting,  from  the  mention  in  it  of  the 
Christians,  is  the  account  of  the  life  and  death 
of  Peregrinus,  whom  Lucian  knew  and  whose 
extraordinary  end  he  witnessed. 

This  person  was  born  in  a  village  in  Armenia. 
He  commenced  his  public  career,  after  grow- 
ing  to   manhood,  murdering  his  father.      To 
conceal  himself  he  joined  the  Christians  at  a 
distant  town,  where  he   became    professor  of 
exegetic  theology,  revised  some  of  their  sacred 
books,  wrote  others,  and  seemingly  was  made 
into  a  bishop.     He  was  thrown  nito  prison  in 
one  of  the  persecutions.     The  Christians  be- 
haved to  him  with    the  affection    which  they 
never  failed  to  show  to  any  of  the  brethren  in 
distress.     They  raised  subscriptions  for  him  ; 
they  brought  him  food  ;  widows  and  orphans 
watched  about  his  cell,  and  with  the  jailer's 
connivance  shared  the  solitude  of  his  confine- 
ment.     At    length  he  was    released,  but  the 
sacred    character  which  he   had  assumed  sat 
uneasily  upon  him.     His  disease  was  a  passion 
for  notoriety,  Lucian  says  that  he  shocked  the 
Christians  by  eating   forbidden    food  ;   more 
likely  he  developed  some  new  form  of  heresv, 
He  was  excommunicated,  or  at  any  rate  he  was 
expelled  from  the  Church,  and  joined  the  Cynic 
philosophers.      In   this    capacity   he  went  to 
Rome,  where  he  achieved  a  new  celebrity  by 
the  insolence  of  his  tongue.  He  assailed  Marcus 


3  o4  -^^^'^  TO  RICA  L  ESS  A  YS. 

Aurelius  himself  with  his  ribaldry.  The  wise 
emperor  rewarded  him  with  the  impunity  of  a 
privileged  fool,  and  the  public,  to  whom  there 
is  no  pleasure  greater  than  to  hear  good  men 
sneered  at  and  libelled,  for  a  time  applauded 
the  libeller.  But  the  novelty  wore  off.  Pere- 
grinus  was  again  sinking  into  a  neglect  which 
he  could  not  endure.  To  rouse  the  interest  of 
men  once  more  he  announced  that  at  the  next 
Olympian  Festival  he  would  give  the  world  a 
lesson  in  the  contempt  of  death,  and  would 
publicly  burn  himself.  He  expected  that  his 
admirers  would  interfere,  but  curiosity  or  in- 
difference kept  them  silent.  He  had  committed 
himself  and  was  too  vain  to  retract.  The  pile 
was  raised.  The  fire  was  kindled.  Peregrinus 
leapt  into  it  and  perished.  Lucian,  who  was 
himself  present,  being  eagerly  questioned  as  to 
what  had  taken  place  by  one  of  the  martyr's 
disciples,  answered  a  fool  according  to  his 
folly,  and  told  him  that  an  eagle  had  risen  out 
of  the  flames  and  had  soared  into  the  sky. 
The  story  which  he  had  himself  invented  passed 
at  once  into  the  popular  belief,  and  was  after- 
wards retailed  to  him  by  another  spectator,  who 
declared  that  he  had  witnessed  the  extraordi- 
nary portent  with  his  own  eyes. 

After  such  experience  Lucian  was  not  likely 
to  give  easy  credence  to  tales  of  miracles,  and 
Christianity  had  not  attained  in  his  lifetime  a 
position  of  the  commanding  importance  which 
would  have  induced  him  to  study  its  meaning 
with  real  attention. 

He  was  born  at  Samosata,  not  far  from 
Antioch,  about  the  year  130  a.d.  His  father 
was  a  sculptor,  and  Lucian  was  intended  for 
the  same  pursuit.  In  a  sketch  which  he  calls 
*  A  Dream,'  he  describes  his  difificulties  in  the 
choice  of  his  profession  under  the  familiar 
shape  of  the  two  Fairies.  'I'hc  Genius  of 
mechanical  art  and  the  Oenius  of  intellectual 
culture  each  work  upon  him  their  powers  of 
persuasion.     The  first  promised  him  employ- 


LUC  IAN. 


305 


ment  and  competence,  the  second  promised 
him  poverty  and  wisdom.  He  had  shown 
special  gifts  as  a  child  for  modelling  in  clay. 
Had  he  been  contented  with  a  narrow  career 
he  might  have  achieved  the  eminence  with 
which  the  first  fairy  tempted  him.  But  he 
chose  the  nobler  and  higher  course.  He  left 
his  mallet  and  chisel.  He  travelled  :  he 
practised  as  a  lawyer.  He  studied  in  the 
schools  of  pliilosophy  at  Athens.  His  life  was 
honorably  innocent,  and  if  the  fairy  kept  her 
word  about  poverty,  Lucian  seems  never  to 
have  seriously  suffered  from  it.  The  minute- 
ness of  the  description  of  the  situation  suggests 
that  he  was  at  one  time  a  dependent  on  some 
wealthy  Roman  patron.  A  Roman  noble  in 
the  second  century  thought  his  establishment 
incomplete  without  a  domestic  philosopher  to 
amuse  his  guests,  correct  his  verses,  and  ap- 
plaud his  witticisms  ;  and  men  of  genius  who 
might  have  been  distinguished  accepted  the 
degrading  position  for  the  convenient  case 
which  it  held  out  to  them.  Lucian,  as  a  warn- 
ing to  a  friend  who  was  meditating  such  a  step 
for  himself,  describes  what  he  is  to  expect.  A 
young  man  gains  a  reputation  at  college.  The 
world  takes  notice  of  him.  A  great  man  in- 
vites him  to  dinner,  and  the  entertainment  is 
got  up  specially  on  his  behalf.  He  finds  him- 
self in  a  saloon  more  splendid  than  he  had 
ever  seen.  He  is  uneasy  in  his  chair.  The 
dishes  are  strange  to  him.  He  does  not  know 
how  to  eat,  or  sit,  or  use  his  napkin.  He 
watches  his  neighbors.  He  dreads  the  ridicule 
of  the  servants.  His  health  is  drunk,  and  he 
has  to  made  a  speech.  He  stammers  through 
it  in  misery,  drinks  more  than  is  good  for  him, 
and  wakes  the  next  morning  sick  and  misera- 
ble. But  he  has  given  satisfaction.  He  is  taken 
into  the  great  house,  and  is  envied  by  his  friends 
for  his  supposed  good  fortune.  Lucian  traces 
sadly  his  downward  progress,  after  sacrificing 
his  liberty  and  self-respect  to  a  low  desire  for 


3o6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

luxurious  living.  His  intellect  becomes  de- 
based. He  forgets  the  little  that  he  knew.  He 
ceases  to  entertain  his  master,  and  is  discarded 
for  a  new  favorite.  Having  lost  courage  to 
encounter  the  hardships  of  independence,  he 
is  content  to  remain  a  neglected  parasite  of  a 
patron  who  has  forgotten  his  existence,  He  is 
set  to  travel  in  the  same  carriage  with  my 
lady's  maid,  and  is  charged  with  the  care  of  my 
lady's  pug  dog. 

If  Lucian  ever  himself  made  an  experiment 
of  this  gilded  slavery,  he  resumed  his  freedom 
before  he  had  allowed  it  to  injure  him.  He 
rose  to  be  the  friend  and  equal  of  the  chosen 
few  of  his  age  whose  good  opinion  was  best 
worth  possessing.  In  mature  life  he  was  ap- 
pointed by  Marcus  Aurelius  to  a  high  civil  post 
in  Egypt,  and  lived  to  be  a  very  old  man.  His 
writings  are  not  voluminous,  but  they  belong  to 
the  rare  class  which  will  be  read  with  delight 
as  long  as  human  nature  remains  unchanged  ; 
and  to  us,  in  the  present  speculative  condition 
of  our  minds,  and  confronted  with  problems  so 
like  those  which  troubled  Lucian's  contempo- 
raries, they  have  an  exceptional  and  peculiar 
interest. 

Of  the  true  nature  of  our  existence  on  this 
planet,  of  the  origin  of  our  being,  and  of  the 
meaning  and  purpose  of  it ;  of  what  is  life  and 
what  is  death  ;  and  of  the  nature  of  the  rule 
which  is  exerted  over  us,  we  really  know  noth- 
ing. We  live  merely  on  the  crust  or  rind  of 
things.  The  inner  essence  is  absolutely  con- 
cealed from  us.  IJut  though  these  questions 
admit  of  no  conclusive  answer,  there  is  some- 
thing in  our  character  which  perpetually  impels 
us  to  seek  for  an  answer.  Ilopc  and  fear, 
conscience  and  imagination,  suggest  possibili- 
ties, and  possibilities  become  probabilities  when 
allied  with  high  and  noble  aspirations.  We 
feel  the  action  upon  us  of  forces  which  we  can- 
not see.  The  world  in  which  we  live  we  per- 
ceive to  be  moving  in  obedience  to  some  vast 


LUC  IAN.  307 

overmastering  power.  We  connect  our  in- 
ward emotions  with  what  we  outwardly  perceive. 
Observation  of  facts  creates  a  scheme  or  form 
into  which  our  own  souls  infuse  a  spirit,  and 
thus  arise  theogonies  or  theologies  which  for  a 
series  of  ages  seize  possession  of  human  be- 
lief, take  control  of  conduct,  and  silence,  if 
they  fail  to  satisfy,  the  questionings  of  the  in- 
tellect. 

Such,  undoubtedly,  however  degraded  they 
became,  was  once  the  pagan  religions.  In- 
credible and  absurd  as  they  appear  on  first  ac- 
quaintance with  them,  they  reveal,  when  in- 
spected more  closely,  essential  facts  at  the 
heart  of  them.  They  reveal  generally  a  rude 
observation  of  the  simplest  astronomical  phe- 
nomena, a  recognition  of  the  mysterious  char- 
acter of  physical  life,  a  perception  of  the  eternal 
difference  between  nobleness  and  baseness  of 
conduct,  and  they  contain  vague  aspirations 
after  immortality. 

The  convictions  and  opinions  thus  honestly 
formed  clothed  themselves  in  a  dress  of  myth 
and  allegory,  and  the  imaginative  costume  was 
no  more  than  a  graceful  drapery  of  ideas  which 
were  easily  seen  through.  But  knowledge  out- 
grew its  infant  cycle.  Imagination  flowed  in 
new  channels,  and  no  longer  pursued  the  sacred 
legend  to  its  source.  Poetry  became  prose. 
The  picturesque  fable  became  a  literal  fact, 
and  when  claiming  to  be  a  fact  became  a  mis- 
chievous lie.  The  loves  of  the  gods  and  god- 
desses, transparent  symbols  of  the  workings  of 
natural  forces,  became  demoralizing  examples 
of  vice.  The  system  without  the  clue  to  its 
meaning  was  no  longer  credible,  and  the  con- 
flict began  between  piety,  which  dreaded  to 
be  irreverent  in  refusing  to  believe,  and  con- 
science, which  dared  not  profess  upon  the  lips 
a  creed  which  was  felt  to  be  false. 

Under  such  conditions  the  keenest  intellects 
are  brought  once  more  face  to  face  with  the 
limits  of  attainable  knowledge.    The  problems 


3o8  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

to  which  faith  had  provided  an  answer  are 
again  recognized  as  insoluble  as  soon  as  the 
faith  has  disappeared  ;  and  the  painful  ques- 
tions have  again  to  be  wrestled  with,  which  had 
been  concealed  behind  the  accepted  traditions 
of  healthier  and  happier  ages. 

If  we  nir.y  judge  from  the  prevailing  tone  of 
modern  popular  literature,  from  the  loud 
avowals  of  incredulity  on  one  side  and  the 
lamentations  on  the  other  on  the  spread  of  in- 
fidel opinions,  it  seems  as  if,  after  sixteen  hun- 
dred years  of  satisfied  belief,  which  came  in 
with  Christianity,  we  were  passing  once  more 
into  a  cycle  of  analogous  doubts  ;  and  the 
sentiments  of  so  robust  a  thinker  as  Lucian 
under  the  same  trials  are  the  footprints  of  a 
friend  who  has  travelled  before  us  the  road  on 
which  we  are  entering.  We  hear  him  telling 
us  in  every  sentence  to  keep  a  sound  heart  in 
us  ;  to  tell  no  lies  ;  to  do  right  whatever  may 
befall  us  ;  never  to  profess  to  believe  what  we 
know  that  we  do  not  believe  ;  to  look  phantoms 
in  the  face,  and  to  be  sure  that  they  cannot 
hurt  us  if  we  are  true  to  ourselves. 

]'ut  Lucian  must  speak  for  himself.  We 
offer  our  readers  a  translation  of  one  out  of 
his  many  Dialogues,  not  as  more  celebrated 
that  the  rest,  or  as  exceptionally  superior ;  but 
as  being  the  most  characteristic  on  the  special 
subject  of  which  we  have  been  speaking.  It 
may  be  called  The  Iwili^/tt  of  the  Gods  of 
paganism.  It  describes  the  dismay  in  the 
Pantheon  when  the  Olympian  divinities  per- 
ceived that  men  were  ceasing  to  believe  in 
them,  and  w-ere  affected  with  the  ludicrous 
alarm  that  if  not  believed  in  they  might  cease 
to  exist. 

The  scene  o])ens  in  heaven.  Zeus  is  seen 
walking  up  and  down,  muttering  to  himself; 
others  of  the  gods,  j^erceiving  tiiat  he  is  uneasy, 
approach  him  to  learn  what  is  amiss. 

The  Dialogue  begins  theatrically,  iambics 
and  hexameters  alternating. 


LUC  IAN.  209 

Scene. — Heave?!. 

Zeus  in  ike  foregrou7ul.      Enter  Hermes, 
Ajhene,  and  Here. 

Hermes.— \\\\?i\.    ails   you,   Zeus  ?      Why    do 
you  mutter  so  ? 
Why  pale  and  greensick  pace  you  to  and  fro, 
Like  a  philosopher  ?     Impart  you  grief; 
A  sympathizing  friend  may  lend  relief. 

Athene. — Aye,  my  dear  father   Kronion,  my 
prince,  my  monarch  of  monarchs, 
I  thy  gray-eyed  daughter,  thy  Trito-born,  kneel- 
ing beseech  thee, 
Speak.     Conceal  it  no  longer,  the  sorrow  that 

weighs  on  thy  spirit ; 
Why  dost  thou  sigh  so  deeply,  and  why  is  thy 
countenance  troubled? 
Zt'f^s. — There  is  no  agony,  no  wrong,  no  ill 
Of  such  o'ermastering  potency,  but  still 
An  immortal  God  may  brave  it  if  he  will. 
Athene. — Great   Heaven,  what  words  !  what 

next  are  we  to  fear  ? 
Zens. — Oh  wretches,  wretches,  spawn  of  sin 
and  earth  ! 
Oh  to  what  woe,  Prometheus,  gav'st  thou  birth  ! 
^///<f;/,?.— What  is  it?      Tell    us;    none  but 

friends  are  here. 
Zeus. —  Oh    ye    loud    echoing   thunders,    ye 
lightnings,  burst  from  the  cloud  bank. 

Athene. — Moderate  these  wild  storms.     Euri- 
pides fails  us. 
We  are  unskilled  in  these  rhymes  ;  and  cannot 
keep  pace  with  you. 
Here, — You  suppose  we  do  not  understand 
what  is  the  matter. 
You  presume  too  much  on  our  simplicity. 
Zeus. — Didst   thou  but   know,  thou   wouldst 

be  sad  as  I. 

Here. — I  know  generally.     You    are  in  love 

again,  and  practice  has  taught  me  to  be  patient. 

You  have  found  another  Semcle,  or  Europa,  or 

Danae.     You  are  going  to  make  a  bull  of  your- 


3IO 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


again 


self  again,  or  a  Satyr,  or  a  shower  of  gold  tc 
run  through  the  roof  into  the  beloved's  bosom. 
There  are  the  usual  symptoms,  sighs,  tears,  and 
pale  cheeks  ;  all  undoubted  tokens  of  love. 

Zeus. — Sweet  creature  !  and  you  think  I  am 
disturbed  by  trifles  like  these. 

Here. — What  else  can  it  be  then.''  You,  the 
supreme  God,  in  serious  trouble  ! 

Zeus. — I  tell  you.  Here,  we  are  all  in  trouble. 
Our  very  existence  as  Gods  is  in  peril.  It 
stands  on  the  edge  of  a  razor,  as  men  say, 
whether  we  are  to  be  honored  as  we  have  been, 
or  to  be  neglected  and  turn  into  nothing. 

Here. — Has  a  new  race  of  giants  been  born  ? 
Have  the  Titans  broken  prison  and  taken  arms 

Zeus. — Ah,  no,  not  that.  There  is  no  fear 
on  that  side. 

Here. — On  what  side  then  1  What  imagin- 
able danger  can  be  threatening  us  ? 

Zeus. — Only  yesterday,  my  Here,  only  yes- 
terday, Timocles  the  Stoic  and  Damis  the 
P^picurean  fell  into  an  argument  before  a  large 
and  distinguished  audience  on  the  nature  of 
Providence.  Timocles  was  on  our  side.  Damis 
maintained  either  that  we  had  no  existence, 
or,  at  least,  that  we  had  no  influence  over 
human  affairs.  The  argument  was  not  con- 
cluded, but  the  disputants  separated  agreeing 
to  meet  again  and  finish  it,  and  all  the  world 
is  in  a  fever  to  know  which  of  the  two  will  win. 
You  see  the  danger.  We  depend  on  a  single 
man,  either  to  continue  as  we  are,  or  to  sink 
into  mere  names. 

Here. — A  serious  affair,  no  doubt.  I  don't 
wonder  that  you  are  uneasy. 

Zeus. — And  you  thought  it  was  only  a  fresh 
Danae  !  Ah  well  !  But  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
You,  Hermes,  Athene,  Here,  give  me  your 
opinion. 

I/er?ues. — If  I  were  vou  I  would  bring  it  be- 
fore  Parliament.     Call  the  General  Asseml^ly. 

Here. — My  advice  is  the  same. 


LUCIA  N. 


311 


Athene. — It  is  not  mine,  father.  I  would 
not  make  a  scandal  and  let  the  world  sec  that 
I  was  alarmed.  Surely  \ve  can  arrange  that 
Timocles  shall  beat  lOamis,  and  have  the  best 
of  the  argument. 

Hermes. — That  is  not  so  eas}'.  We  shall  be 
found  out,  and  if  we  interfere  in  a  matter  per- 
sonal to  ourselves  we  shall  be  thought  uncon- 
stitutional. 

Zeus. — Hermes  is  right.  Call  the  Parlia- 
ment.    Let  all  the  Gods  attend. 

Hermes. — Oyez,  Oyez,  Oyez  !  All  the  Gods 
are  required  to  meet  now  for  important  busi- 
ness  in  the  General  Assembly. 

Zens. — Use  better  language,  Hermes.  Your 
proclamation  is  too  bare  and  inadequate. 

Hertnes. — How  would  you  have  it,  Zeus  ? 

Zens, — How  would  I  have  it  ?  I  would 
have  it  set  out  with  metre  and  grandeur,  and  a 
poetic  dignity  equal  to  the  weight  of  the  occa- 
sion.    The  Gods,  won't  stir  for  prose. 

Hermes. — Where  is  a  bard  to  be  found  ?  I 
am  no  poet.  My  lines  will  halt  with  uneven 
lengths,  and  you  will  laugh  at  me.  Why,  now 
and  then  you  laugh  at  the  verses  of  Apollo 
himself;  though  his  oracles  are  so  mystifyfng 
that  you  hardly  think  of  his  metre. 

Zens. — Take  a  proclamation  out  of  Homer. 
I  daresay  you  remember  lines  enough  for  that. 

Hermes. — I  shall  not  make  a  good  job  of  it, 
but  I  will  try. 

Come  each  masculine  God,   and   come   each   feminine 

also, 
Come  every  single  River,  except  Occanus  only, 
Come  each  Nymph  and  each  Faun,  come  all  to  the  Hall 

of  Assembly. 
All  who  can  challenge  a  right  to  share  in  the  banquet  of 

Heaven. 
You,  the  inferior  orders,  the    middle  and  lower  classes, 
Seat  yourselves  under  the  salt,  where  the  steam  ascends 

from  the  altar. 

Zeus, — Good,  Hermes,  good !  Here  they 
come.     \Enter  Gods  from  all  sides  of  Heaven.'] 


312 


IIJSTOKICAL  ESS  A  YS. 


Place  them  in  order  of  merit.  The  gold  Gods 
first,  then  the  silver,  then  the  ivory,  bronze, 
and  stone ;  and  c;ive  precedence  to  any  work 
of  Phidias,  or  Alcamenes,  or  Myron,  or  Eu- 
phrenor,  or  other  artist  of  distinction.  The  rank 
and  file  must  stay  together  at  p.  distance,  be- 
ing here  only  to  fill  the  Hall. 

Jlcnncs. — Your  directions  shall  be  obeyed. 
But  stay  ;  suppose  a  hideous  gold  idol  comes, 
weighing  manv  talents.  Is  he  to  rank  above 
the  marble  and  bronze  of  Phidias?  How  is 
that  to  be  > 

Zens. — You  must  observe  the  rule.  Gold 
ranks  first. 

Hermes. — I  perceive — we  are  a  plutocracy, 
not  an  aristocracy.  This  way  the  gold  Gods  ! 
this  way  to  the  reserved  benches  I  Bah  1  they 
are  all  barbarions.  The  Greeks  are  beautiful — 
they  are  faultless  in  form  and  feature — but  the 
most  precious  of  them  are  only  ivory.  The  few 
of  gilt  wood  are  rotten,  with  a  colony  of  mice  in 
their  entrails.  Bardis  and  Atys,  and  Mithras, 
and  Men  are  of  solid  substantial  bullion. 

Posido7i. — Do  you  mean  to  say,  Hermes, 
that  this  dog-faced  Egyptian  rascal  is  to  sit 
above  me  ? 

Jlenncs. — So  it  is  ordered,  my  shaker  of  the 
earth.  The  Corinthians  had  no  gold  to  spare, 
and  I.ysippus  made  you  of  bronze.  The  Egyp- 
tian is  above  you  by  whole  metallic  degrees. 
Look  at  his  snout— and  real  gold  too  !  You 
ought  to  be  proud  to  sit  under  such  a  god. 

Aphrodite. — You  will  give  me  a  front  seat,  at 
any  rate,  Hermes }  All  the  world  calls  me 
golden. 

Hermes. — I  cannot  see  it,  my  dear.  You 
appear  to  me  to  have  been  cut  from  the  quarry 
at  Pentelicus.  By  the  grace  of  Praxiteles  you 
became  Aphrodite,  and  were  sold  to  the 
Cnidians. 

Aphrodite. — But  I  call  Homer  to  witness. 
He  calls  me  golden  a  hundred  times. 

Hermes. — So  Honier   calls    Apollo    golden; 


LUC  I  AN. 


3»3 


but  there  Apollo  sits  on  the  lower  form. 
Thieves  have  stolen  his  gold  crown  and  his 
lute  strings,  and  you  may  sit  by  him  and  be 
ihankful  that  you  are  not  among  the  maid- 
servants. 

Colossus  flf  RJiodcs. — Who  is  the  equal  of  me  ? 
T  am  the  first  of  gods,  for  I  am  the  biggest. 
My  friends  at  Rhodes  made  me  so.  I  cost  as 
much  as  sixteen  gold  gods  of  average  size. 
That  is  what  I  am  worth,  and  there  is. the  art 
besides. 

Hermes. — What  am  I  to  do  here,  your  Majes- 
ty? The  substance  of  him  is  bronze,  no  doubt ; 
but  take  him  at  his  money  value,  and  he  must 
be  among  the  upper  ten. 

Zeus  (aside). — What  is  he  doing  here,  disturb- 
ing the  assembly  and  making  the  rest  of  us 
look  small  ? — My  best  of  Rhodians,  we  are 
aware  how  precious  you  are ;  but  if  I  place 
you  among  the  gold  gods,  they  must  all  move 
to  make  room  for  vou,  and  you  must  sit  by  your- 
self. You  fill  the  Pnyx  with  one  of  your  thighs. 
Will  you  kindly  stand  ?  You  can  stoop  when 
you  want  to  hear. 

Hermes. — Another  difficulty.  Here  are 
Dionysus  and  Hercules,  both  of  first-rate  work- 
manship ;  both  by  the  same  artist  Lysippus; 
both  sons  of  your  own.  Which  is  to  sit  first  of 
them  ?     They  are  at  words  about  it. 

Zeus. — We  waste  time,  Hermes.  We  should 
have  been  at  work  long  since.  Let  them  sit 
any  way  for  the  present ;  we  can  settle  their 
precedence  afterwards. 

Hermes. — Hercules  ! — what  a  noise  they 
make!  'Where  is  the  nectar?'  cries  one. 
'The  ambrosia  is  out,' cries  another.  'The 
hecatombs  are  not  fairly  divided,'  says  a  third  ; 
'  they  are  meant  for  all  of  us-,  share  and  share 
alike  ! ' 

Zeus. — Tell  them  to  be  quiet,  Hermes.  I 
must  now  inform  them  why  they  are  assem- 
bled. 

Hermes. — Half    of   them   won't  understand 


314 


HISTORICAL  ESSA  YS, 


me:  I~can^spcak'no  language  but  Greek, 
and|^here  .are,  Scythians,  Persians,  Thracians, 
and  I  know  not_^vvho.  _  I  will  sign  to  them  with 
my  hand/ 

ZcHs. — Do  so. 

Hermes. — They  are  mute  as  sophists.  Speak 
away ;  they  are  all  attention  to  hear  what  is 


commg. 


Zeus. — Oh  !  my  son,  my  son,  what  am  I  to 
do  ?  You  know  how  ready  I  generally  am  on 
these  occasions. 

Hermes: — That  I  do.  You  terrify  me  some- 
times when  you  talk  so  bigly  of  hanging  us 
all, f  and  earth  and.  sea  to  boot,  on  that  gold 
chain  of  yours,-; 

ZdV/i',-;— And  now — whether  it  be  the  occa- 
sion,, or.  all  this  crowd  of  gods,  I  know  not — 
but!  have  forgot  my  speech,  I  had  prepared 
it '^carefully,  with  a  splendid  exordium,  and  I 
can't  remember  a  word. 

^Hermes. — This  is  ruin.  Every  eye  is  fixed 
on  you.  Your  silence  makes  them  expect  won- 
ders, 

^Zciis. — Shall  I*start~with    the   established 
line  from  Homer, 

Hear  me,  all  ye  Gods,  and  all  ye  Goddesses  also  ? 

Hervies. — Nonsense.  I  made  mess  enough 
with  Homer.  Do  as  the  orators  do;  take  the 
opening^of  one,  of  Demosthenes'  Philippics, 
altering  a  word  or  two. 

Zeus. — Aye,  that  will  do.  A  few  well-turned 
expressions  and  we  are  all  right.  Here 
goes  :— 

The  most  splendid  present  which  I  could 
bestow  upon  you  gentlemen  Gods,*  would  be 
less  acceptable  in  your  present  disposition 
than  an  explanation  of  the  cause  for  which  I 
have  now  assembled  you  together,  I  must 
beseech  you,  therefore,  to  attend  to  the  words 

^  Ci  iiv{\i(:r  Oeoi  instead  of  the  w  uvd/ieg  'AOyvalai.  ThQ 
humor  is  lost  in  the  translation. 


LUC  IAN.  3ig 

which  I  am  al^out  to  utter.  The  time  in  which 
we  are  living,  gentlemen,  calls  upon  us  to 
exert  ourselves  with  a  voice  all  but  articulate, 

and  we  sit  still  in    negligent    indit'ference 

But  my  ])emosthenes  has    run  out.     Let   me 
tell  you  plainly  what  is  the  matter.  Yesterday, 
you  are  aware,    Captain  Pious  gave  a  thank- 
offering  for   the    preservation   of    his   vessel, 
which  was  nearly  foundering.     Such  of  us  as 
were  invited  were  entertained  at  Piraeus.  When 
we    broke  up   after  dinner,  I,  as  it  was   still 
early,  strolled  up  into  the  city,  meditating   on 
the  shabby  provision  which  Captain  Pious  had 
made.     Sixteen  of  us  had  sate  down.     On  the 
altar  there  was  but  a  single  cock,  and  that  one 
too  old  to  crow.    The  few  grains  of  incense 
were  mildewed,  and  would  not  burn,  and  there 
was  scarce  a  whiff  for  the  nose  of  one  of  us. 
The  wretch  had  promised  hecatombs  when  he 
was  running  on  the  rocks.     I  was  standing  in 
the  Porch  engaged  in  these   reflections,  when 
I  observed  a  crowd  about  the  hall,  some  in- 
side, some  pressing  about  the  door.     I  heard 
voices  loud  in  contradiction.     I  understood  at 
once  that  a  couple  of  professors  were  disput- 
ing, and  I    determined  to   hear   what  it   was 
about.     By  good  luck  I  had  a  thick  cloud  on. 
I  adjusted  my  dress,  gave  my  beard  a  pull  to 
make  myself  like  a  philosopher,  and  elbowed 
my  way  in.     There  I  found  a  good-for-nothing 
scamp  of  an  Epicurean  named  Damis,  and  the 
respected  and  excellent  Stoic,  Timocles,  argu- 
ing together.     Timocles   was  perspiring   with 
eagerness,  and  hoarse  with  shouting.     Damis 
was  turning  him  into  ridicule  and  driving  him 
distracted  with  his  coolness.     The  subject  of 
discussion  was  ourselves.     Damis  maintained 
that  we    had  no   concern  with  men  and   their 
doings,  and  almost  denied  our  existenc"      ^n. 
deed,  this  was  what  he  meant,  and  n 
his  audience  applauded.     Timocles  tc 
part,  passionately  and  indignantly.    He 
well  of   Providence.     He  dwelt  on  tl 


3l6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

which  is  observed  throughout  nature.  He  was 
not  without  his  friends,  but  he  was  unequal  to 
his  work.  He  spoke  badly.  The  party  in 
favor  of  Daniis  grew  larger  every  moment,  till, 
seeing  what  was  likely  to  happen,  I  ordered 
up  Night  to  bring  the  meeting  to  an  end.  leav- 
ing them  to  finish  the  argument  lo-morrow.  I 
mi.xed  in  ihe  crowd  as  the  people  went  home. 
I  found  most  of  them,  I  am  sorry  to  sav,  on 
Damis's  side;  a  few  only  remained  undecided 
till  they  had  heard  out  what  Timocles  had  to 
reply.  You  will  now,  my  divine  friends,  be  no 
longer  at  a  loss  to  understand  your  summons 
to  this  assembly.  From  men  we  derive  our 
honor  and  glory  and  our  revenues.  Let  men 
once  conceive  either  that  we  do  not  exist,  or 
that  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  them,  and  vic- 
tims, incense,  and  prayers  will  cease  to  be 
offered  to  us.  We  shall  be  left  sitting  idle 
here  in  Heaven,  banquets  and  ceremonies  at 
an  end,  perishing  of  hunger.  It  concerns  us 
all,  gentlemen,  it  concerns  us  all.  What  is  to 
be  done  ?  How  is  Timocles  to  get  the  best  of 
the  argument  and  answer  Damis  sufficiently? 
I  have  no  confidence  in  Timocles.  He  means 
well,  but  unless  we  help  him  he  will  certainly 
be  beaten.  Give  the  usual  notice  Hermes. 
Any  God  who  can  give  advice  in  our  present 
emergency,  let  him  rise  and  speak. 

Hcrnics. — Oyez,  oyez,  oyez !  Order  in  the 
assembly  !  Any  God  who  desires  to  speak  is 
requested  to  stand  up What,  all  motion- 
less !  All  struck  dumb  at  what  you  have 
heard  I 

Momiis — 

Turning  each  one  of  you  all  into  water  and  clods  of  the 

valley. 

If  freedom  of  speech  is  permitted  here,  Father 
Zeus,  I  should  like  to  make  an  observation. 

Zeus. — Speak  on.  You  have  nothing  to  fear. 
We  shall  be  delighted  to  hear  you. 


LUC  I  AN. 


317 


Momus.  Listen  then,  Gods.  I  will  address 
you,  as  men  say,  from  the  heart.  I  have  long 
seen  how  thini^s  were  j^oing.  It  has  long  been 
evident  to  nie  ihat  philosophers  would  rise  up 
and  piek  holes  in  us.  By  Themis,  I  cannot 
blame  Epicurus  and  his  disciples  for  the  con- 
clusions at  which  ihey  have  arrived  about  us. 
What  other  conclusions  could  ihev  arrive  at, 
when  they  saw  the  confusion  around  ihcm  ? 
Good  men  neglected,  perishing  in  penury  or 
slavery;  ami  protiigate  wretches  wealthy,  hon- 
ored, and  powerful.  Sacrilegious  temple-rob- 
bers undiscovered  and  unpunished  ;  devotees 
and  saints  beaten  and  crucified.  With  such 
phenomena  before  them,  of  course  men  have 
doubted  our  existence.  The  oracles,  forsooth, 
ought  to  be  an  evidence  to  them.  An  oracle 
tells  Croesus  that  if  he  crosses  the  Halys,  he 
will  destroy  a  mighty  empire  ;  but  it  does  not 
explain  whether  he  is  to  destroy  his  enemy's 
empire  or  his  own.     An  oracle  says 

Many  a  mother's  son  sliall  in  thee,  O  Salamis,  perish. 

Mothers  produce  children  in  Greece  as  well  as 
in  Persia.  There  are  the  Sacred  Poems.  Oh 
yes  !  Poems  which  tell  them  that  we  have  our 
loves  and  our  fights ;  that  we  quarrel  one  with 
another;  that  some  of  us  are  in  chains  ;  that  a 
thousand  things  go  wrong  with  us,  while  we 
pretend  to  immortal  blessedness.  What  can 
they  do  but  hold  us  in  contempt .''  We  affect 
surprise  that  men  who  are  not  fools  decline  to 
put  their  faith  in  us.  We  ought  rather  to  be 
pleased  if  there  is  a  man  left  to  say  his  prayers. 
We  are  among  ourselves,  with  no  strangers 
present.  Tell  us,  then,  Zeus,  have  you  really 
ever  taken  pains  to  distinguish  between  gootl 
men  and  bad  ?  You  cannot  say  you  have.  The- 
seus, not  you,  dest roved  the  robbers  in  Attica. 
As  far  as  you  and  Providence  were  concerned, 
Sciron  and  Pity-o-campus  might  have  mur- 
dered and  plundered  to  the  end  of   time.     If 


3i8 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


Eurystheus  had  not  looked  into  matters  and 
sent  Hercules  upon  his  labors,  little  would  you 
have  troubled  yourself  with  the  Hydras  and 
the  Centaurs.  Let  us  be  candid.  AH  that  we 
have  really  cared  for  has  been  a  steady  altar 
service.  Evervthins:  else  has  been  left  to 
chance.  And  now  men  are  opening  their  eyes. 
They  perceive  that  whether  they  pra/  or  don't 
pray,  go  to  church  or  don't  go  to  church,  makes 
no  difference  to  them.  And  we  are  receiving 
our  deserts.  Our  advocates  are  silenced.  The 
Kpicuruses  and  the  Damises  carry  the  world 
before  them.  If  you  wish  mankind  to  rever- 
ence you  again  you  must  remove  the  cause  of 
their  disbelief.  For  myself,  I  care  little  how 
it  goes.  I  was  never  much  respected  at  the 
best  of  limes,  Now  they  may  think  as  they 
please. 

2^ies. — Don't  mind  this  rude  fellow.  He  is 
always  so.  Any  one  can  pick  holes,  as  the  di- 
vine Demosthenes  says.  The  difficulty  is  to 
discover  what  is  to  be  done.  And  now  that 
Momus  has  finished  you  will  give  me  your  sug- 
gestions. 

Posidon. — My  place,  you  are  aware,  is  under 
water  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  To  the  best 
of  my  ability  I  take  care  of  sailors,  help  ships 
to  harbors,  and  keep  down  the  winds.  At  the 
same  time  I  am  not  indifferent  to  matters  here, 
and  to  prevent  more  trouble,  I  recommend  you 
to  knock  Damis  down  with  a  thunderbolt.  He 
is  plausible  ;  we  shall  prevent  his  words  from 
gaining  more  hold  ;  and  we  shall  give  a  proof 
that  we  are  not  to  be  trifled  with, 

Zfi/s. — You  jest,  Posidon.  Have  you  forgot- 
ten that  llie  manner  of  every  man's  death  is 
predestined  for  him?  Do  you  suppose  that  if 
it  had  rested  with  me  I  would  have  let  the 
robber  escape  who  cut  off  my  gold  curls  at 
()lympia,  tliat  weighed  six  pounds  apiece? 
Wliat  could  you  do  witii  the  fisherman  that 
stole  your  trident  at  Gera;slus  ?  Besides,  to 
put  Damis  out  of  tho  way  would  only  show  that 


LUC  I  AN. 


319 


wc    were    afraid    of   what  he    might  say,  and 
didn't  dare  to  let  the  case  he  argued  out. 

rosidon. — It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  easiest 
road  out  of  the  difficuUy. 

Zens. — A  most  dense  notion,  Posiddn,  worthy 
only  of  a  sea-pig. 

Posidon. — If  my  idea  is  piggish,  find  a  better 
of  your  own. 

Apollo. — May  a  beardless  youth  venture  to 
address  the  assembly  ? 

Momus. — This  is  not  a  time  to  stand  on  cer- 
emony, Apollo.  You  are  within  the  law  too. 
You  have  been  of  age  these  many  years.  Why, 
you  are  one  of  the  twelve.  I  am  not  sure  that 
you  were  not  in  the  Privy  Council  in  Crono's 
time.  None  of  your  infant  airs.  If  your  own 
chin  is  smooth,  you  have  a  son,  vEsculapius 
here,  whese  beard  is  long  enough.  Give  us 
some  of  that  philosophy  which  you  have  learnt 
from  the  Muses  in  Helicon. 

Apollo. — It  does  not  rest  with  you,  Momus, 
to  give  leave  or  refuse  it.  If  Zeus  permits, 
however,  I  may  show,  perhaps,  that  my  con' 
versation  with  the  Muses  has  not  been  thrown 
away. 

Zens. — Say  on,  my  child.     I  allow  you. 

Apollo. — This  Timocles  appears  a  worthy, 
pious  man,  and  is  well  thought  of  as  a  professor. 
His  lecture  class  is  large.  His  fees  are  heavy, 
and  he  speaks  fluently  and  convincingly  among 
his  own  friends  and  disciples.  On  a  public 
platform,  unhappily,  he  is  less  satisfactory. 
His  accent  is  not  good.  He  lacks  presence  of 
mind,  and  is  confused.  He  labors  to  produce 
an  effect  with  fine  words,  and  then  he  is  laughed 
at.  Those  who  are  familiar  with  the  Stoic  for- 
mulas say  that  he  understands  his  subject  well 
enough,  but  he  wants  clearness  of  exposition. 
He  loses  his  head  when  he  is  cross-questioned 
and  flounders  into  absurdities.  Now,  the  object 
is  to  make  him  speak  so  that  he  shall  be  com- 
prehended. 

Momus. — As  you  appreciate  plainness,  Ap- 


320  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

olio,  it  is  a  pity  you  don't  practice  it.  Your 
oracles  usually  want  another  oracle  to  interpret 
them.  How  do  you  propose  to  cure  these 
faults  in  Timocles .'' 

y^/^/Zb.'— Couldn't  we  provide  a  junior  coun- 
sel to  take  Timocles's  ideas  and  put  them  into 
words  ? 

Momus. — Utterly  childish.  ...  A  lead  in  an 
an  important  case  to  be  unable  to  express  his 
own  thoughts  at  a  meeting  of  philosophers ! 
Damis  is  to  speak  for  himself.  Timocles  is  to 
whisper  his  notions  to  his  junior,  and  his  junior  is 
to  find  the  rhetoric  without  understanding  what 
he  is  saying.  That  will  be  too  absurd.  We 
must  find  a  better  expedient  than  that.  My 
fine  fellow,  you  are  a  prophet.  You  have  made 
a  fortune  by  prophesying.  They  have  given  you 
whole  bricks  of  gold.  Let  us  have  a  specimen 
of  your  art.  Tell  us  what  is  to  happen  in  this 
business.     I  suppose  you  know. 

Apollo. — Impossible,  Momus.  I  have  neither 
tripod  nor  censers — not  so  much  as  a  fountain 
of  Castalia. 

Momus. — You  are  afraid,  are  you  ?  You 
think  you  will  be  found  out. 

Zens. — My  son,  you  had  better  do  it.  Don't 
let  this  caviller  mock  at  ycu — as  if  your  inspi- 
ration depended  on  your  tacking. 

Apollo. — I  could  make  a  better  business  of  it 
at  Delphi  or  Colophon,  with  my  instruments  at 
hand.  I  will  try,  however,  if  you  wish.  You 
must  allow  for  irregularities  in  the  verse. 

Momus. — Never  mind  the  verse,  old  fellow — 
only  speak  intelligibly.  No  rams  and  tortoises 
are  being  boiled  in  Lydia  to  catch  you.  You 
know  what  we  want  to  learn. 

Zeus. — What  is  coming  t  The  spirit  works 
in  him.  Mv  child  !  Oh,  my  child  !  His  color 
changes!  His  eyes  roll!  He  is  convulsed! 
Most  mysterious,  most  fearful ! 

Apollo  {in  the  prophetic  trance). — 
List,    oh  list  to  my  words,  the    words   of   the 
Augur  Apollo, 


LUC/AN.  321 

How  the  dread  strife  shall  have  end  which  has 

now  coiniiiciicecl  among  mortals, 
Mortals  with  voices  shrill,  and  armed  with  the 

weajjons  of  logic. 
Many  a  blow  shall  be    struck   as    the  foemen 

close  in  the  battle  ; 
Many  a  blow  shall  be  dealt  in  the  solid  wood 

of  the  plongh-tail. 
But    when  the  locust  is  caught  in  the  mighty 

gripe  of  the  vulture, 
Then  shall  be  heard  the  last  croak  of  the  om- 
inous wet-boding  raven. 
Then  shall  the  mule  be  strong  and  the  jackass 
shall  butt  at  his  offspring. 
Zeus. — Why   do  you  laugh,    Momus  ?     It  is 
no    laughing   matter.     Stop,    you   sinner ;  you 
will  choke  yourself. 

Mofuus. — What  can  I  do  but  laugh  at  so 
simple  a  prophet  ? 

Zais. — If  you  understand  the  oracle,  tell  us 
what  it  means. 

Momns — What  the  oracle  means;  Why,  it 
means  that  the  prophet  is  a  humbug,  and  that 
we  who  believe  in  him  are  mules  and  asses, 
without  the  wit  of  a  grasshopper. 

Heraiks. — I  am  not  quite  at  home  up  here — 
but  I  don't  like  to  sav  nothing.  What  I  think 
IS  this.  Let  the  philosophers  meet  and  argue. 
If  Timocles  has  the  best  of  it,  well  and  good — 
nothing  more  need  be  done.  If  Timocles  is 
beaten  I  will  pull  down  the  hall  on  Damis's 
head,  and  make  an  end  of  the  miserable 
creature. 

Momus. — Hercules,  dear  Hercules,  most 
rustic  of  IJceotians  !  To  punish  one  bad  man 
you  will  destroy  a  thousand,  and  the  hall  besides, 
with  the  frescoes  of  Miltiades  and  Marathon. 
What  is  to  become  of  the  orators  when  the 
fountain  of  their  illustrations  is  gone  ?  IJcsides, 
you  can't  do  it.  When  you  were  a  man  you 
l)erha|)s  might,  for  you  diil  not  understand  the 
condition  of  things.     Now  tiiat  you  are  a  God 


322  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

you  are  aware,  arc  you  not ;  that  these  matters 
are  pre-arranged  by  the  Fates  ? 

Hercules  to  Zetis. — Is  this  true,  sir  ?  when  I 
killed  the  Lion  and  the  Hvdra,  was  it  the  Fates 
that  killed  them,  and  not  I  ? 

2^us. — Not  a  doubt  of  it. 

Hacules. — And  if  any  one  is  impudent  to  me, 
or  robs  my  temples,  I  may  not  punch  his  head 
unless  the  Fates  please  ; 

Zeus. — Indeed,  you  must  not. 

Hercules. — With  your  permission  then,  Zeus 
I  will  make  an  observation.  I  am  a  plain  man, 
and  call  a  spade  a  spade,  as  the  poet  says.  If 
this  is  to  be  a  god,  may  you  long  enjoy  your 
blessed  condition.  For  myself  I  will  go  to 
Hades  with  my  bow  and  hunt  the  ghosts  of  the 
monsters  which  I  slew  when  I  was  alive. 

Zeus. — Out  of  our  own  mouths  we  stand  con- 
victed. We  m.ay  spare  Dam  is  the  trouble. 
[But  who  comes  here  in  such  a  hurry  ?] 

Btiter  Hermagenes. 

This  bronze  youth  with  his  hair  in  the  style  of 
the  last  century.  It  is  your  brother,  Hermes. 
Your  brother  that  stands  in  the  Agora,  next 
the  Poekile.  He  is  covered  with  j^itch.  The 
statuaries  have  been  moulding  upon  him. 
What  brings  you  here,  my  son  ?  Is  anything 
? 

Hermagenes. — Indeed  there  there  is,  Zeus, 
wrong  with  a  vengeance. 

Zeus. — What  is  it  ?  a  revolution  in  Athens .'' 
We  ought  to  have  been  informed  of  it. 

Hentiagenes — The  founders'  men  were  with 
me.     '  Twas  but  now 
They  smeared  me  round  with  resin,  back  and 

brow  ; 
Thick  coated  was  T,  and  the  rind  or  peel 
iJore  my  correct  impression  like  a  seal. 
Just  then  a  crowd  came  by,  and  in  the  midst 
Two  pale,  loud-screaming,  wordy  pugilists, 
Damis  and — 


wrong 


LUC  I  AN, 


323 


Zeus. — Not  another  word  of  your  tragedy, 
my  dear  Hermagenes  ;  I  know  the  men.  Has 
the  fight  begun  ? 

Jlcrmagcitcs. — Not  yet  in  earnest.  They  arc 
skirmishing,  pelting  each  other  with  words  at 
a  distance. 

Zeus. — We  will  go  down  and  hear.  Draw 
the  bolts  !  pull  up  the  cloud  curtains  !  open  the 
gates  of  Heaven!  Hercules!  what  a  multi- 
tude !  Timocles  looks  ill :  he  shakes  ;  he  is 
no  match  for  Damis,  I  fear.  We  can  help  him 
with  our  prayers  at  any  rate.  Softly,  however, 
\est  Damis  hear. 

Scene  changes  to  the  Theatre  at  Athens.  The 
bcncJics  crowded  with  citize?is.  Timocles 
and  \y hull's,  o?i  the  stage  ;  and  the  Gods,  in- 
visible to  the  aiidience,  looking  on. 

Tifjiocles. — What !  you  blasphehious  villain^ 
you  !  you  don't  believe  in  the  Gods  and  in 
Providence  ? 

Damis.  I  see  no  proof  of  their  existence; 
I  wait  your  reasons  v/hy  I  should  have  a  posi- 
tive  opinion  about  it. 

Timocles.  I  will  give  you  no  reasons,  yOu 
wretch.     Give  me  yours  for  your  atheism. 

Zeus. — Our  man  is  doing  well.  He  has  the 
rudest  manner  and  the  loudest  voice.  Well 
done,  Timocles  !  give  him  hard  words.  That 
is  your  strong  point.  Begin  to  reason  and  you 
will  be  as  dumb  as  a  fish. 

Timocles. — By  Athene,  you  shall  have  no 
reasons  from  me. 

Damis. — Very  well  then  ;  ask  me  questions 
and  I  will  answer  them.  Don't  use  foul  lan- 
guage if  you  can  help  it. 

Timocles. — Speak  then  you  accursed  monster. 
Do  you  or  do  you  not  believe  in  Divine  Provi- 
dence ? 

Damis. — I  do  not. 

Timocles. — What  ?  Do  you  mean  that  the 
Gods  do  not  foresee  future  events? 


324 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


Damis. — I  do  not  know  that  they  do. 

Ihnocks. — And  there  is  no  divine  order  in 
the  universe  ? 

Doffiis. — None  that  I  am  aware  of. 

Timocles. — And  the  world  is  not  governed  by 
reason  and  intelligence  ? 

Datnis. — I  do  not  perceive  that  it  is. 

Timocles. — Will  you  bear  this,  good  people  ? 
Will  you  not  stone  the  blasphemer  ? 

Damis. — Why  inflame  the  people  against 
me,  Timocles  ?  The  Gods  show  no  displeas- 
ure. They  have  heard  me  (if  hear  they  do) 
without  interposing.  Why  should  you  be  so 
fierce  in  their  behalf  ? 

Timocles. — They  hear  you.  They  hear  you. 
They  will  give  it  to  you  by  and  by. 

Damis. — They  will  not  have  much  leisure  to 
bestow  on  me  if  they  are  so  busy  as  you  say, 
Timocles,  managing  the  universe.  They  have 
not  punished  you  for  certain  perjuries  that  I 
have  heard  of.  I  will  not  go  into  particulars, 
but  they  could  scarcely  have  a  better  opportu- 
nity of  vindicating  their  existence  than  by 
bringing  you  to  question.  They  are  away 
across  the  ocean,  perhaps,  among  the  Ethiop- 
ians. They  dine  there  frequently  on  their  own 
invitation,  do  they  not  ? 

Timocles. — What  reply  can  I  make  to  such 
horrible  irreverence  ? 

Damis. — You  can  give  me  the  reply  for 
which  I  have  been  so  long  waiting.  You  can 
tell  me  why  you  yourself  believe  in  Providence. 

Timocles. — I  believe  in  it  first  on  account  of 
the  order  which  is  visible  throughout  the  uni- 
versal scheme  of  things.  The  sun  and  moon 
move  in  their  allotted  path ;  the  seasons  re- 
volve ;  the  plants  spring  ;  the  animals  come  to 
the  birth,  and  are  organized  with  exquisite 
skill.  Man,  yet  more  wonderful  than  they, 
thinks  and  acts  and  makes  shoes  and  builds 
houses — all  evident  j^roofs  of  design  and  pur- 
pose. 

Damis. — You    beg  the   question,   Timocles. 


LUCIAN. 


325 


You  have  not  proved  that  things  are  as  they 
are  by  design.  What  is,  is.  Tiiat  it  has  been 
so  ordered  by  Providence  is  no  sure  conchisiou 
Once  there  may  have  been  disorder  where 
there  is  now  order.  You  look  at  the  universe 
as  it  exists,  you  examine  the  movements  of  it, 
you  admire  them,  you  assume  that  those  move- 
ments were  intended,  and  you  fly  into  a  passion 
with  those  who  cannot  agree  with  you  ;  but 
passion  is  not  argument,  as  they  say  in  the 
play.  What  is  the  second  reason  for  your  be- 
lief ? 

Timoclcs. — There  is  no  need  of  a  second ; 
but  you  shall  have  no  excuse  for  your  impiety. 
You  allow  that  Homer  is  the  first  of  poets  ? 

Datnis. — I  do. 

Timocles. — Well,  then,  Homer  says  that  there 
is  a  Providence,  and  I  believe  Homer. 

Daniis. — My  excellent  friend.  Homer  may 
be  a  first-rate  poet,  but  neither  he  nor  any  of 
his  kind  are  authorities  on  matters  of  fact. 
The  object  of  poetry  is  to  amuse,  not  to  in- 
struct. Poets  arrange  their  words  in  metre, 
they  invent  legends  out  of  their  imagination, 
they  desire  to  give  their  hearers  pleasure,  and 
that  is  all.  But  to  what  passages  in  Homer  do 
you  refer.-'  He  tells  us,  if  I  remember,  that 
the  wife  and  brothers  and  daughter  of  Jupiier 
conspired  to  dethrone  and  imprison  him,  and 
that  if  Thetis  had  not  called  in  the  help  of 
Briareus  they  would  have  succeeded.  He  tells 
us  that  Jupiter,  to  reward  Thetis,  cheated 
Agamemnon  with  a  false  dream,  and  that  tens 
of  thousands  of  Acha^ans  perished  in  conse- 
quence. Or  you  believe,  perhaps,  because 
Athene  set  on  Diomed  to  wound  Aphrodite  and 
Ares,  because  the  whole  celestial  company  fell 
afterwards  into  fighting  one  with  another  ;  then 
Ares,  who  I  suppose  had  not  recovered  from 
his  hurt,  was  thrashed  by  Athene,  and 

Up  against  Leto  arose  the  duughty  champion  Hermes. 


326k  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

Or  you  have  been  convinced  by  the  story  about 
Artemis.  Artemis  was  angry  because  Q£neus 
had  not  asked  her  to  dinner,  and  sent  a  mon- 
strous boar  to  ravage  the  country.  These,  I 
presume,  are  the  illustrations  of  divine  power 
mentioned  by  Homer  which  you  have  found  so 
satisfactory. 

\Applause  from  all  parts  of  the  Theatre. 

Zeus. — P>less  me,  how  they  cheer  ;  and  our 
fellow  is  looking  over  his  shoulder.  .  .  .  He 
trembles.  He  will  drop  his  shield  in  a  moment, 
and  run. 

Timodcs. — Euripides  brings  the  Gods  upon 
the  very  stage.  He  shows  them  in  the  act  of 
rewarding  good  heroes,  and  punishing  wretches 
like  you.     Is  Euripides  mistaken  too  ? 

Daviis. — Most  wise  philosopher,  if  you  argue 
from  the  stage,  why  then  the  actors  Polus, 
Aristodemus,  Satyrus  must  be  Gods ;  or  per- 
haps it  is  their  masks,  and  boots,  and  shawls, 
and  gloves  and  false  stomachs  ?  When  Euri- 
pides speaks  his  own  opinion,  he  says : 

Thou  see'st  the  asther,  stretching  infinite, 
Enveloping  the  earth  in  moist  embrace. 
This — this  is  Zeus — this  is  the  Deity. 

And  again  : 

Zeus  be  Zeus  whate'cr  he  may, 
I  know  but  what  the  legends  say, 

with  more  to  the  same  purpose. 

Timocles. — Then  the  uiuUitudes  of  men  and 
nations  who  have  believed  in  the  existence  of 
the  Gods,  and  have  worshipped  them,  have  all 
been  deceived  ? 

Damis. — Thank  you  for  reminding  me  of 
national  religious  customs.  Nothing  exhibits 
more  plainly  the  foundations  on  which  theology 
is  Ijuilt.  'J'here  is  one  religion  on  one  side  of 
a  border,  and  another  on  the  other.  The 
Scythian  worships  Acinaces,  the  Thracian  a 
slave,  Zalmoxis,  who  escaped  from  Samos,  The 
Thrygian  adores  the  moon  or  the  month  ;  the 


LUC  I  AN.  327 

^Ethiopian  the  clay.  The  Cyllenian  prays  to 
Phanes  ;  the  Assyrian  to  a  dove  ;  the  Persians 
to  fire  ;  the  /Egyptians  to  water.  At  Memphis 
a  bull  isn  agod  ;  at  Pelusium  an  onion.  Else- 
where in  Egypt  they  worship  an  ibis,  a  creco- 
dile,  a  cat,  a  monkey,  a  dog-headed  ape.  In 
some  villages  the  right  shoulder  is  sacred,  in 
others  the  left ;  in  others  a  skull  cut  in  half ;  in 
others  a  bowl  or  a  plate;  Do  you  really  mean, 
Timocles,  that  such  things  are  a  serious  proof 
that  the  Gods  exist  ? 

Momus  (Jo  the  Gods). — I  warned  you,  my 
friends,  that  there  would  be  an  inquiry  into 
these  matters,  and  that  the  truth  would  come 
out. 

Zeus. — You  did  so,  and  you  were  right, 
Momus.  If  we  survive  our  present  trouble  I 
will  try  to  mend  them. 

Timocles. — Oh,  thou  enemy  of  God  !  what 
dost  thou  say  to  oracles  and  prophecies  ? 
Whence  come  they,  save  from  divine  foreknowl- 
edge. 

Damis. — To  what  oracles  do  you  refer  ?  You 
mean,  I  presume,  the  answer  that  Croesus  got 
from  the  Pythoness,  for  which  he  paid  so 
dearly,  that  ruined  him  and  his  city.  An  oracle 
with  a  double  face,  like  the  statues  of  Hermes. 

Momus. — Exactly  what  I  most  feared. 
Where  is  our  soothsayer?  Go  in,  Apollo,  and 
answer  for  yourself. 

Zeus. — 'Sdeath,  Momus,  this  is  no  time  for 
irony. 

Timocles. — Seest  thou  not,  thou  sinner  thou, 
that  thy  arguments  will  make  an  end  of  Church 
and  Altar  \ 

Z>amis. — Not  all  Churches  and  not  all  Altars, 
Timocles.  We  will  let  the  Altars  stand  where 
they  burn  only  incense.  Of  the  Shrine  of  our 
Lady  in  Tauris  I  would  not  leave  a  stone. 

Zeus. — Frightful.  The  fellow  spares  none  of 
us.  He  speaks  as  if  from  the  back  of  a  wagon, 
and  curses  you  all  in  a  heap,  alike  the  guilt;/ 
and  guiltless. 


328  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

Momus. — Not  many  of  us  can  plead  not 
guilty,  Zeus.  Wait  ;  he  will  strike  higher  pres- 
ently.    {A  thiiiidcrstorin?) 

Timoclcs. — Dost  thou  hear,  thou  impious 
Damis .''  Uost  thou  hear  the  voice  of  Zeus 
himself .'' 

Damis. — I  hear  the  thunder  ;  but  whether  it 
be  the  voice  of  Zeus  you  know  belter  than  I. 
You  have  been  in  Heaven,  I  presume,  and  have 
seen  him.  Travelers  from  Crete  tell  me  they 
show  his  grave  in  that  island.  If  he  has  been 
long  dead,  I  do  not  perceive  how  he  can  be 
thundering. 

Mo7nus. — I  knew  he  would  say  that  ;  I  was 
sure  of  it.  You  change  color,  Zeus.  Your 
teeth  chatter.  Pluck  up  your  spirits.  Never 
mind  what  these  monkeys  say. 

Zciis. — Never  mind  !  It  is  very  well  to  say 
never  mind.  Don't  you  see  that  Damis  has  the 
whole  Hall  with  him  .'' 

Alomus. — Let  down  that  gold  chain  of  yours, 
and  drag  them  all  up  in  the  air  with  earth  and 
ocean  together. 

Titnocks. — Have  you  ever  been  at  sea,  miser- 
able man  ? 

Damis. — Many  times,  Timocles. 

l^imoclcs. — And  did  not  the  wind  in  the  sails 
help  you  more  than  the  rowers  ?  And  was 
there  not  a  pilot  at  the  helm  to  keep  the  vessel 
true  upon  its  course  ? 

Damis. — Assuredly. 

Timoclcs. — The  ship  could  not  reach  its  port 
without  a  pilot ;  and  the  ship  of  the  Universe, 
you  think,  requires  neither  captain  nor  helmS' 
man  ? 

Zens. — Well  put,  Timocles.  A  good  illustra- 
tion that. 

Damis. — Most  inspired  Timocles,  the  cap- 
tain you  speak  of  arranges  his  plans  before- 
hand. He  settles  his  course  and  adheres  to  it. 
His  men  are  all  in  order  and  obey  his  word  of 
command.  Spars,  ropes,  chains,  oars  are  on 
board  in  their  i^laces,  and  ready  to  his  hand. 


LUCIA  N.  329 

But  the  great  captain  of  the  Universe  shows 
none  of  this  forethought.  The  forestay  is 
made  fast  to  the  stern,  and  the  sheets  to  the 
bow.  The  anchors  are  sometimes  of  gold,  and 
the  bulwarks  of  lead.  The  bottom  is  painted 
and  carved  :  the  upper  works  are  plain  and 
unsightly.  The  crew  are  disposed  at  random  •, 
the  craven  fool  is  a  commissioned  officer  ;  the 
swimmer  is  sent  aloft  to  man  the  yards  ;  the 
skilled  navigator  to  work  at  the  pumps.  As  to 
the  passengers — knaves  sit  at  the  captain's 
table  ;  honest  men  are  huddled  into  corners. 
Socrates  and  Aristides  and  Phocion  lie  on  the 
bare  boards,  without  room  to  stretch  their  feet, 
and  without  food  enough  to  eat.  Callias  and 
Midas  and  Sardanapalus  revel  in  luxury,  and 
look  down  on  the  rest  of  mankind.  This  is 
the  state  of  your  ship,  Timocles,  and  it  explains 
the  number  of  shipwrecks.  Had  there  been  a 
captain  in  command,  he  would  have  distin- 
guished the  good  from  the  bad,  have  promoted 
worth  and  capacity,  and  have  set  vice  and  folly 
in  the  place  belonging  to  it.  The  able  seaman 
would  be  master  or  lieutenant ;  the  skulker 
and  poltroon  would  be  tied  to  the  triangles. 
In  short,  my  friend,  if  your  ship  has  had  a 
commander,  he  has  not  been  fit  for  his  place, 
and  there  is  need  of  a  revolution. 

Momus. — Damis  is  sailing  with  wind  and 
stream  direct  into  victory. 

Zeus. — It  is  so  indeed.  Timocles  produces 
nothing  but  common-places,  and  one  after 
another  they  are  overturned. 

Timocles. — As  the  example  of  the  ship  does 
not  convince  you,  I  will  give  you  one  more 
argument,  the  last,  the  best,  the  sheet-anchor 
of  theology. 

Zeus. — What  is  he  going  to  say  ? 

Timocles. — Attend  to  the  positions  as  they 
follow  one  from  the  other,  and  discover  a  flaw 
if  you  can.  If  there  are  altars,  then  there  must 
be  Gods.    But  there  are  altars,  therefore  there 


330  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

are  Gocls.  There,  what  say  you  now  ? 
Laughing  ?     What  is  there  to  amuse  you  ? 

Damis. — Mv  clear  friend,  I  doubt  if  this 
sheet-anchor  of  yours  will  stand.  You  hang 
the  existence  of  the  Gods  on  the  existence  of 
altars,  and  you  fancy  the  link  will  hold  ;  but  if 
this  is  your  last  position,  we  may  as  well  close 
the  discussion. 

Timocks. — You  admit  that  you  are  van- 
quished. 

Damis. — Of  course  :  you  have  taken  refuge 
at  the  altar  as  men  do  in  extremities.  On  that 
altar  and  in  the  name  of  your  sheet-anchor  we 
will  swear  a  truce,  and  contend  no  more. 

Timoclcs. — Oh  !  oh  !  you  are  sarcastic,  are 
you  !  you  grave-digger  !  you  wretch  !  you 
abomination  !  you  jail-bird  I  you  cess-pool  ! 
we  know  where  you  came  from  ;  your  mother 
was  a  whore  ;  and  you  killed  your  brother  and 
seduced  your  friend's  wife ;  you  are  an  adul- 
terer, a  sodomite,  a  glutton,  and  a  beast.  Stay 
till  I  can  thrash  you.  Stay,  I  say,  villain,  ab- 
horred villain  ! 

Zeus. — One  has  gone  off  laughing,  and  the 
other  follows  railing  and  throwing  tiles  at  him. 
Well,  what  are  we  to  do  ? 

Hcnncs. — The  old  play  says,  you  are  not  hurt 
if  you  don't  acknowledge  it.  Suppose  a  few 
people  have  gone  away  believing  in  Damis, 
what  then  .''  A  great  many  more  believe  the 
reverse  ;  and  the  whole  mass  of  uneducated 
Greeks  and  the  barbarians  everywhere. 

Zeus. — True,  Hermes,  but  that  was  a  good 
thing  which  Darius  said  about  Zopyrus.  *  I  had 
rather  have  one  Zopyrus  than  a  thousand 
Babylons.' 


DIVUS    C^SAR. 


The  *  Pharsalia  '  of  Lucan  is  a  passionate 
imprecation  on  the  destroyers  of  tlic  Roman 
constitution.  The  Gods  had  permitted  that  in 
this  world  the  enemies  of  liberty  should  tri- 
umph. Struggling  for  consolation,  the  young 
patriot  persuades  himself  that  perhaps  in  an- 
other world  the  balance  may  be  redressed. 
With  the  aid  of  the  witch  P>iclho,  he  reani- 
mates the  corpse  of  a  lately  killed  soldier. 
The  livid  lips  describe  the  forging  in  hell  of  the 
adamantine  chains  which  are  to  bind  Caisar  to 
the  crags  of  an  infernal  Caucasus.  The  pOet 
bids  the  champions  of  the  Republic  make  haste 
to  die,  that  in  Tartarus  they  may  trample  under 
foot  the  tyrants  whom  Rome  was  adoring  as 
divinities.  At  other  moments  the  future  Seems 
as  hopeless  to  him  as  the  present.  He  flings 
the  guilt  upon  the  Olympians  themselves,-  and 
finds  no  comfort  save  in  the  hope  that  they 
may  suffer  retribution  at  the  hands  of  the  com- 
mon usurpers.  The  Gods  had  forgotten  to  be 
just,  and  their  power  would  be  taken  from 
them.  The  civil  carnage  would  raise  mortals 
to  the  throne  of  heaven,  their  hands  armed 
with  lightnings  and  their  brows  crowned  with 
stars. 

As  his  last  and  practical  conviction,  Lucan 
seems  to  have  concluded  that  from  Gods  of 
any  kind  no  redress  was  to  be  looked  for. 

Victrix  causa  Deis  i)laciiii  scd  victa  Catoni. 


332 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


Justice  was  in  man  or  it  was  nowhere.  If 
crime  was  to  be  avenged,  it  must  be  on  earth 
and  by  a  human  hand.  He  sacrificed  his  life, 
while  only  in  his  2Sth  year,  in  an  abortive  con- 
spiracy against  Nero,  and  along  with  his  life 
the  extraordinary  gifts  which  his  frenzied  pas- 
sion could  not  wholly  spoil. 

Throughout  his  poem  a  confidence  that  the 
right  cause  ought  to  triumph  struggles  with  a 
misgiving  that,  in  the  administration  of  the 
universe,  no  moral  purpose  is  discoverable. 
Perhaps  it  was  in  irony,  perhaps  it  was  in  sad 
conviction  that  the  Gods — if  Gods  there  were 
— were  no  better  than  Nero,  that  he  addressed 
the  emperor  in  the  amazing  lines  with  which 
he  opens  his  subject. 

After  describing  the  desolation  which  Caesar's 
wars  had  spread  over  the  Roman  world,  he 
proceeds  : 

But  if  no  otlier  means  the  fates  could  find 

To  give  us  Nero — if  the  Thunderer's  self 

Could  reign  but  when  the  Giant's  wars  were  done, 

We  then,  oh  Gods,  complain  not.     For  such  boon 

Our  trampled  laws,  our  violated  rights, 

Woe,  sacrilege,  crime,  we  gladly  bear  them  all. 

Strew  thy  dread  plains,  Pharsalia,  with  the  slain, 

Spirits  of  fallen  Carthage,  sate  your  thirst 

With  Latin  blood  on  Munda's  fatal  field. 

Famish  I'erusium,  perish  Mutina, 

Fleets  drift  to  wreck  on  Leucas'  iron  crags. 

And  battles  rage  'neath  /Etna's  blazing  crest. 

Yet  Rome  is  still  a  debtor  to  the  Gods 

When  she  has  thee.     'l"o  thee,  when  late  thou  goest, 

Thine  earthly  sojourn  ended,  to  the  stars, 

Tiic  Heavenly  palaces  will  fling  wide  the  gates, 

The  Gods  will  lay  their  sceptres  at  thy  feet 

And  bid  thee  choose  among  them.     Wilt  thou  reign. 

Monarch  sut)reme?     Wilt  thou  i)refer  to  guide 

The  car  of  rh(i;bus  ?     Karth  will  know  no  fears 

From  change  of  lords  beneath  thy  sure  command; 

And  each  divinity  t(j  thine  must  yield. 

This  only  grant,  that  when  the  choice  is  made. 

And  thou  art  fixed  in  thy  august  dominion, 

Seek  not  a  throne  within  the  icy  North, 

Incline  not  to  the  low-sunk  Southern  sky. 

From  whence  on  Kome  thy  beams  askance  may  fall. 

Too  near  the  I'oles  thv  overtnastering  weight 

Will  strain  the  nice  poised  balance  of  the  world. 


DIVUS  CAiSAR.  333 

Dwell  \\\  the  Zenith,  where  each  rival  light 
Shall  pale  in  thine  and  thou  shalt  shine  alone, 
'riieu  siiall  the  mists  melt  from  the  face  of  Heaven, 
The  sword  fall  blunted  from  the  warrior's  hand, 
And  peace  shall  reign  and  Janus'  gates  be  closed. 

Me  now  inspire,  in  this  my  enterprise. 
With  thee  within  my  breast  I  shall  not  need 
'I'o  sue  the  Pvlliian  God  for  mvstic  fire; 
la  thee  alone  a  Roman  bard  will  find 
Fit  aid  at  need  to  sing  a  Roman  song. 

Many  explanations  may  be  given  of  this 
extraordinary  language,  yet  no  one  of  them  is 
wholly  satisfactory.  When  the  deification  of 
Claudius  was  voted  by  the  Senate,  Lucan's 
uncle,  Seneca,  had  written  a  farce  on  this  oc- 
casion, the  dTTo/foXoKiVrwrrt?,  or  translation 
of  the  late  emperor  into  the  society  of  pump- 
kins. Lucas's  lines  may  be  conceived  to  have 
been  written  in  a  similar  spirit  of  mockery. 
Claudius,  however,  was  dead  when  he  was 
turned  into  ridicule.  Nero  was  alive,  and  was 
not  a  person  with  whom  it  was  safe  to  take 
liberties.  Call  it  adulation  !  But  adulation  of 
the  Caesars  was  the  last  quality  to  be  expected 
in  the  '  Pharsalia  '  or  its  author.  Let  it  have 
been  conventionality ;  but  there  will  remain 
to  be  explained  the  popular  sentiment  to  which 
conventional  language  is  necessarily  addressed. 
How  could  educated  Romans,  who  were  still 
punctilious  in  observing  the  traditionary  forms 
of  the  established  religion,  either  utter  or  toler- 
ate language  which  appeared  like  a  satire  upon 
religion  itself.?  The  elevation  of  illustrious 
mortals,  when  their  earthly  labors  were  over, 
to  a  throne  among  the  stars  had  been  for  ages 
a  familiar  conception.  The  Twins  glittered 
in  the  Zodiac  among  the  August  Twelve. 
Hercules,  Perseus,  and  Orion  displayed  in  the 
nightly  sky  the  rewards  prepared  in  heaven  for 
the  deeds  which  they  have  accomplished  as 
men.  Quirinus,  the  mythic  founder  of  Rome, 
remained  the  tutelary  guardian  of  the  Roman 
people.  The  spirits  of  heroic  warriors,  rein- 
corporated in  jewelled  constellations,  spread 


334 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


over  the  surface  of  the  entire  celestial  sphere. 
That  the  great  dead  should  have  a  home  among 
the  Gods  was  a  natural  and  reasonable  expec' 
tation.  But  never  till  the  days  of  the  Roman 
Empire  had  men  been  found  to  say  of  a  man 
like  themselves,  still  living  among  them,  still 
subjected  to  the  conditions  of  mortality,  '  He 
is  but  waiting  till  he  passes  from  the  earth  for 
the  Gods  to  abdicate  and  leave  the  choice  to 
him  of  the  vacant  thrones  in  heaven.' 

For  Nero  it  must  be  said  that  he  was  but 
accepting  honors  which  'had  been  already 
claimed  by  Caius  Caligula,  and  which  had  been 
offered  by  the  Senate  to  the  least  arrogant  of 
his  predecessors  ;  for  Lucan,  again,  was  but 
repeating  a  note  which  had  been  struck  already 
by  a  poet  of  an  incomparably  higher  order. 
Augustus  was  studiously  simple — careful  to 
conceal  the  power  which  he  really  possessed 
behind  constitutional  forms,  and  sternly  con- 
temptuous of  idle  flattery.  Horace,  of  all  men 
of  intellect  that  ever  lived,  was  the  least  likely 
to  condescend  to  extravagant  and  unmeaning 
compliments.  Horace  was  not  religious,  but 
he  never  mocked  at  religion.  Long  indifferent 
to  such  considerations,  he  tells  us,  half  seri- 
ously, that  late  in  life  he  had  been  frightened 
back  into  belief.  In  the  grandest  of  his  odes, 
he  refers  the  miseries  of  Rome  to  forgetfulness 
of  the  Gods,  and  he  warns  liis  countrymen  that 
the  sins  of  their  fathers  will  continue  to  be 
visited  upon  them  till  they  rebuild  the  temples 
and  restore  the  fallen  shrines.  Yet  Horace 
could  address  Augustus  with  whom  he  was 
personally  intimate,  and  with  whom  he  con- 
tinually dined,  in  language  not  less  extrava- 
gant than  Lucan's.  Whichever  of  the  Gods 
Augustus  might  be,  whether  Apollo,  or  Mer- 
cury, or  Mars,  Horace  affected  to  believe  that 
he  was  at  least  one  of  them.  In  pity  for  the 
wretchedness  of  his  children,  the  Great  Father 
had  sent  an  immortal  as  'a  present  God'  to 
take   charge  of  them,  and   to  bring   back   the 


DIVUS  CAiSAR.  33^ 

golden  age.  Under  ihc  beneficent  rule  of 
Augustus,  the  cow  did  not  cast  her  calf,  the 
corn  waved  yellow  over  the  fields,  the  ship 
SjDed  to  its  pc^rt  with  calm  seas  and  favoring 
airs,  man  no  longer  broke  his  faith  to  man,  and 
wives  were  c'.iaste,  and  punishment  followed 
sin  or  crime.  To  Augustus  the  grateful  hus- 
bandman offered  his  evening  sacrifice  after 
his  day  of  toil  before  he  retired  with  his  family 
to  sleep.*  What  the  Virgin  Mary  is  to  the 
modern  peasant  of  I-'rance  or  Italy,  such  Augus- 
tus was,  while  still  living,  in  the  'farm-house  of 
Latium  and  Etruria — as  real,  perhaps  more 
real,  because  he  was  ^ pfccsais  JJivus,'  because 
his  rule  was  regarded  as  a  '  kingdom  of  God 
upon  earth.' 

Virgil's  Fourth  Eclogue,  which  was  read  by 
Constantine's  order  at  the  Council  of  Nice  as 
an  evangelical  prophecy,  is  no  more  than  a 
beautiful  repetition  of  the  same  idea.  In  the 
year  of  Pollio's  consulship  '  unto  Rome  a  child 
was  born,  unto  Rome  a  son  was  given,'  who 
was  to  reign  as  a  God  upon  earth.  In  his 
time  the  earth  would  bring  forth  abundantly. 
In  his  time  the  lion  would  lie  down  with  the 
lamb,  the  infant  would  play  on  the  cockatrice's 
den  and  take  no  harm,  and  sin  and  sorrow 
\yould  fly  away.  The  babe  for  whom  this  bril- 
liant horoscope  was  drawn  was  probably  one 
of  Augustus's  grandsons,  who  died  in  early 
youth.  We  need  not  look,  at  any  rate,  beyond 
the  imperial  family  to  understand  and  even 
sympathize  with  language  which  was  the  ex- 
pression of  a  universal  feeling. 

*Condit  quisque  diem  collibus  in  suis 
Et  vitem  viduas  dticit  ad  arbores, 
Hinc  ad  vina  redit  Irctiis  et  alteris     , 
Te  nieusis  adhibet  Deum. 

Te  muitu  prece,  te  prosequitur  mero 
Defuso  pateris  ct  Laribus  tuuin 
Miacet  inimcn,  uti  Groscia  Castoris 
pt  magni  inenior  Ilcrciilis. 

Ilurare,  Oi/es  :  Lil)  iv.,  (Jdc  5. 


3^6  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

To  a  Roman  who  had  witnessed  what  Italian 
society  had  become  in  the  last  days  of  the 
Republic — the  incredible  depravity  of  manners, 
the  corruption  of  justice,  the  oppression  of 
the  provinces,  the  collapse  of  the  political 
fabric  in  a  succession  of  civil  wars  which  had 
overflowed  the  Roman  world  like  a  sea  of  lava 
— the  reign  of  Augustus,  protracted  as  it  was 
through  half  a  century,  with  order  restored, 
and  life  and  property  secure,  and  peace  such  as 
the  earth  had  never  known  established  through- 
out civilized  mankind,  may  well  have  seemed 
a  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  and  Augustus  himself, 
from  whom  these  real  blessings  appeared  to 
How,  may  have  been  mistaken  without  extrav- 
agant creduality  for  something  more  than  a 
mere  mortal. 

But  let  us  turn  to  what  we  actually  know  of 
the  introduction  of  this  singular  idolatry. 

The  Romans,  like  all  great  peoples,  were, 
in  the  earlier  stages  of  their  history,  eminently 
religious.  Their  habits  were  frugal,  their  pri- 
vate lives  were  austerely  moral,  and  wherever 
conduct  is  pure,  piety  springs  up  by  an  unvary- 
ing law  of  nature,  as  grass  and  flowers  grow 
from  a  wholesome  soil.  Reverence  for  God, 
or  the  Gods,  was  interwoven  with  domestic 
habits  and  with  public  laws.  The  fact  of  the 
Gods'  existence  and  of  their  sovereign  rule 
over  all  things  was  accepted  with  the  faith 
which  had  never  heard  of  scepticism.  The 
simple  rites  which  the  early  Latins  were  called 
on  to  observe  neither  troubled  their  consciences 
nor  perplexed  their  understandings.  The 
whole  duty  of  man  lay  in  i-irliis — virtue,  manli- 
ness ;  and  unbelief  is  an  infection  which  manly 
minds  are  the  last  to  catch. 

But  they  could  not  escape  the  inevitable. 
The  Gods  of  Latiuni  might  perhaps  be  supreme 
in  Italy;  but  when  the  authority  of  the  republic 
was  extended  beyond  the  Peninsula,  the  con- 
(juerors  encountered  other  nations  with  other 
creeds,  and  it  fared  with  the  Romans  as  it  fared 


DIVUS  CyESAR. 


m 


with  the  Israelites  among  the  Semitic  tribes  of 
Canaan  : 


to 


Graccia  capta  ferum  victorem  cepit  et  artes 
Intulit  agrcsti  Latio. 

The  Israelites  identified  Jehovah  with  Baal. 
The  Greeks  taught  the  Latins  to  see  in  their 
own  Jupiter  and  Minerva  and  Venus,  the  Zeus 
and  the  Pallas  and  Aphrodite  of  Homer  and 
Hesiod.  With  the  new  names  came  the  impure 
mythology  of  the  Hellenes ;  and  the  Latin 
morality,  which  was  founded  in  religion,  dis- 
solved and  disappeared  in  the  presence  of 
Deities  whom  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  re- 
spect. The  cultivated  Athenians  could  resolve 
their  legends  into  allegory.  The  practical 
Romans  took  the  letter  of  the  mythology  as 
they  found  it,  and  discovered  that  it  was  no 
longer  credible.  Those  beings  could  not  be 
Gods  in  any  true  or  real  sense  who  lived  in  the 
practice  of  the  worst  vices  which  their  ances- 
tors had  taught  them  to  abhor.  The  public 
ceremonial  survived,  but  the  heart  had  gone 
out  of  it.  The  fear  of  God  departed,  and  mor- 
ality and  justice  departed  with  it ;  and  the 
ancient  Latin  creed  underwent  the  fate  tc 
which  all  reliirions  are  condemned  which  arc 
connected  with  partial  sympathies  or  have  risen 
out  of  imperfect  knowledge. 

Religions  which  have  exerted  a  real  influence 
over  masses  of  mankind  have  always  begun  in 
genuine  conviction.  They  have  contained  an 
answer  to  questions  which  men  were  anxiously 
asking  at  the  time  when  they  originated,  and 
to  which  they  appeared  to  give  a  credible  reply. 
Once  accepted,  they  petrify  into  unchanging 
forms.  Knowledge  increases  ;  religion  remains 
stationary.  Fresh  problems  rise,  for  which 
they  provide  no  solution,  or  a  solution  trans- 
parently false  ;  and  then  follow  the  familiar 
phenomena  of  disintegration  and  failing  sanc- 
tions and  relaxed  rule    of  action,  and,  along 


338  Historical  essays. 

with  these,  the  efforts  of  well-meaning  men  to 
resist  the  irresistible — reconciliations  of  religion 
and  science,  natural  theologies  reconstructed 
on  philosophic  bases,  with  at  intervals  unavail- 
ing efforts  to  conceal  the  cracks  in  the  theory 
by  elaborate  restorations  of  ritual  ; — or  again, 
on  the  other  side,  the  firm  avowal  of  disbelief 
from  the  more  sincere  and  resolute  minds, 
such  as  rings  out  of  the  lines  of  Lucretius. 

With  Lucretius  we  are  all  familiar :  not  less 
interesting — perhaps  more  interesting,  as  show- 
ing the  working  of  more  commonplace  intellects 
— is  the  treatise  '  On  the  Nature  of  Gods,' 
which  Cicero  wrote  almost  "■•r  the  same  time 
when  Lucretius  was  composing  his  poems,  and 
which  contains  the  opinions  of  the  better  sort 
of  educated  Romans. 

That  such  a  dialogue  should  have  been 
written  by  a  responsible  and  respectable  person 
in  Cicoro's  position,  is  itself  a  proof  that 
religion  was  at  its  last  gasp.  Tradition  had 
utterly  broken  down  :  serious  men  were  looking 
in  the  face  the  facts  of  their  situation,  and  were 
asking  from  experience  what  rule  they  were 
living  under;  and  experience  gave,  and  always 
must  give,  but  one  reply.  Men  are  taught  to 
believe  in  an  overruling  Providence  ;  they  look 
for  evidence  of  it,  and  they  find  that,  so  far  as 
human  power  extends  over  nature  there  are 
traces  of  a  moral  government ;  but  that  it  is 
such  a  government  as  man  himself  establishes 
for  the  protection  of  society,  and  nothing  more. 
To  what  we  call  good  and  evil,  nature  as  such 
is  indifferent,  and  nature  submits  to  man's 
control,  not  as  he  is  just  or  unjust,  believing 
or  sceptical,  but  as  he  understands  the  laws  by 
which  the  operations  of  nature  are  directed. 
The  piety  of  the  captain  does  not  save  his  ship 
from  the  reefs.  He  depends  on  his  knowledge 
of  navigation.  Prayer  does  not  avert  the 
pestilence  ;  but  an  understanding  of  the  condi- 
tions of  health.  The  lightning  strikes  the 
church,  but  spares  the  gambling-house  provided 


DIVUS  CALSAR.  33f) 

with  a  conducting-rod.  Disease  and  misfortune, 
or  the  more  mi:;hty  visitations  of  the  earthquake, 
the  famine,  tlie  inundation,  make  no  distinction 
between  the  deservinq;  and  ihe  base.  The 
house  falls  and  spare  the  fool,  while  it  cuts 
short  a  career  which  might  Ikivc  been  precious 
to  all  mankind.  This  is  the  truth  so  far  as  ex- 
perience can  teach  ;  and  only  timidity,  or 
ignorance,  or  a  resolution,  like  that  of  Job's 
friends,  to  be  more  just  than  God,  can  venture 
to  deny  it  ;  and  thus  arises  the  dismayed  ex- 
clamation which  has  burst  in  all  ages  from  the 
hearts  of  noble-minded  men  :  Why  are  the 
wicked  in  such  prosperity  t  Not  that  they 
envy  the  wicked  any  miserable  enjoyment  which 
they  may  obtain  for  themselves,  but  because 
they  see  that  all  things  come  alike  to  all,  and 
that  there  is  no  difference — that  as  it  is  with 
the  wise  man,  so  it  is  with  the  fool  ;  as  with 
him  that  sacrifices,  so  with  him  that  sacrifices 
not.  The  manifest  disregard  of  moral  distinc- 
tions discredits  their  confidence  in  Providence, 
and  sends  a  shuddering  misgiving  through 
them,  that  no  such  power  as  a  moral  Providence 
exists  anywhere  beyond  themselves. 

Again  and  again  in  the  progress  of  human 
development  mankind  have  been  forced  into 
an  unwilling  recognition  of  the  truth,  and  the 
crisis  has  been  always  a  painful  one.  So  long 
as  religion  is  fully  believed,  the  inattention  of 
nature  to  impiety  and  immorality  is  compensat- 
ed by  the  increased  energy  of  government, 
and  by  the  higher  aspirations  of  individual 
men.  Impiety  does  not  escape  unpunished 
when  it  is  treated  by  the  magistrate  as  a  crime. 
In  a  society  which  is  penetrated  by  a  conscious- 
ness of  responsibility  to  God  morality  is  re- 
w\arded  as  such,  and  vice  and  impurity  are 
punished  as  such  by  temporal  inconveniences. 
When  religion  no  longer  guides  the  intellect  or 
controls  the  conduct,  society  confines  itself  to 
the  punishment  of  ofTences  against  itself.  Hav- 
ing no  longer  any  high  consciousness  of  duty, 


340 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


society  is  tolerant  of  profligncy  which  avoids 
the  grosser  forms  of  crime.  For  the  rest,  the 
magistrate  exclaims  cynically  :  Dforuvi  injiir'm 
JJiis  ciine,  well  knowini^  that  if  the  Gods'  in- 
juries are  not  punished  by  himself  the  offend- 
er's slumbers  will  be  undisturbed. 

So  matters  stood  at  Rome  when  Velleius  the 
Epicurean,  ]jalbus  the  Stoic,  and  Cotta  the 
Pontifex  Maximus,  the  Pope,  the  head  of  the 
national  religion,  the  guardian  of  the  sacred 
oracles,  met  together  at  Cicero's  villa  to  dis- 
cuss the  nature  of  the  Gods.  The  argument 
was  opened  properly  by  Velleius.  Epicurean- 
ism was  the  popular  creed  of  the  day,  the  creed 
of  the  men  of  science  and  intellect,  the  creed 
of  the  poet,  the  artist,  and  the  statesman.  The 
Epicureans  believed  in  phenomena.  They 
held  with  Locke  that  the  intellect  could  reason 
only  upon  facts  conveyed  to  it  through  the 
senses,  and  that  knowledge  could  not  extend 
beyond  the  objects  of  sensible  experience. 
The  earth  and  all  that  existed  upon  it  had 
been  created  by  nature,  and  was  governed  by 
laws  of  natural  causation.  Nature  was  sover- 
eign, and  no  external  power  can  be  proved  to 
have  ever  interfered  with  it.  As  to  the  sup- 
position that  another  order  of  beings  existed 
somewhere  superior  to  man,  the  Epicureans 
had  no  objection  to  acknowledge  that  it  might 
be  so  ;  they  thought  it  rather  probable  than 
otherwise  :  they  denied  only  that  such  beings 
took  an  interest  in  man. 

Briefly  and  completely  their  views  on  this 
subject  had  been  expressed  by  Ennius: 

Ego  genus  esse  semper  dice  et  dixi  Coelitum, 
Sed  non  eos  curare  opinor  quid  agat  humauum  genus. 
Nam   si  curent,  bene  bonis  sit   malis   male,  quod  nunc 
abest. 

'  1  always  say  and  have  said  that  the  race  of 
the  celestials  exists,  but  I  opine  not  that  they 
concern  themselves  with  the  doings  of  the  sons 
of  men.     Did  they  so   concern   themselves,  it 


DIVUS  CyESAR.  341 

v'ould  be  well  with  the  good  and  ill  with  the 
wicked,  which  now  it  is  not.' 

Men  had  no  care  for  the  animals  which 
shared  the  eanh  with  thcin.  The  (jods  might 
exist,  yet  might  care  as  little  for  men  as  men 
cared  for  beetles  or  biitterilies.  The  admis- 
sion of  the  possibility  of  such  an  existence  was 
perhaps  a  condescension  of  philosophy  to  pop- 
ular prejudice,  or  arose  from  a  wish  to  avoid 
the  reproach  of  Atheism.  Yet  Velleius  insist- 
ed on  it  with  an  appearance  of  earnestness. 
He  appealed  to  instinct  and  internal  emotion 
as  an  evidence  *  that  somewhere  in  the  uni- 
verse were  to  be  found  beings,  in  a  state  of  un- 
broken repose,  perfect  virtue,  and  perfect  hap- 
piness, and  that  in  the  adoration  of  them — 
disinterested,  because  no  favor  was  to  be 
looked  for  in  return — was  the  highest  felicity 
of  man. 

These  views  are  set  out  in  the  dialogue  with 
a  brevity  which  shows  that  Cicero  did  not 
think  them  to  deserve  more  elaborate  treat- 
ment, and  in  the  reply  of  Cotta  the  most  inter- 
esting feature  is  his  statement  of  his  own  ]50- 
sition.  He  was  the  Pontifex  Maximus.  The 
duty  of  his  office,  he  said,  required  him  to  de- 
fend the  religion  established  by  law.  He 
would  be  pleased  if  the  existence  of  the  Gods 
could  be  established,  not  only  on  the  authority 
of  tradition,  but  as  a  fact  which  admitted  of 
proof  ;  but  it  was  surrounded  with  difhculties 
which  Velleius  had  only  increased.  That  man- 
kind could  worship  beings  who  were  and  would 
be  always  indifferent  to  them,  was  hardly  to  be 
expected.  The  openly  expressed  scepticism 
of  bolder  reasoners,  the  exulting  claim  of  Lu- 
cretius that  the  spectre  of  superstition  had  been 
forever  exorcised  by  science,  spared  the  nec- 
essity of  graver  argument. 

The  Epicurean  being  thus  dismissed,  the 
word  was  taken  up  by  the  Stoic  Balbus.     With 

*  '  Anteccptam  animo  rei  quandam  informationem 
sine  quu  ncc  iutelligi  quicquaiu  iicc  disputari  potest.' 


342  JIISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

ihe  Epicurean,  morality  was  enlightened  self- 
interest.     The  Stoic  believed  in  duty.     To  act 
rightly,  to  love  justice,  and  truth,  and  purity, 
and  to  hate  their  opposites,  were  matters  of  ab- 
solute obligation  to  him.     A  law  implied  a  law- 
giver ;  responsibility  required  a  ruler,  to  whom 
an   account   would   have  to  be   rendered  ;  the 
Stoic   therefore    looked    about    him  in  a    very 
modern  fashion  for  answers  to   popular    objec- 
tions to   the  truth   of  religion.     If  the    age  of 
miracles    had    ceased    he    found    that    mira- 
cles,   portents,    or    prodigies    were    recorded 
in  tradition  ;  the  instances  of  design  in  nature, 
the    adaptation  of  means  to   ends  in  the  struc- 
ture and  functions  of  animals,  were  evidence 
of  an   intelligent  Creator;  and   the   elaborate 
pains  with  which  Cicero  explains  the  Stoic  po- 
sition shows  that  at  least  he  felt  it  to  deserve  re- 
spectful treatment.     Balbus  maintained  the  ex- 
istence of  the  Gods  to  be  an   established  truth 
of  history.     Castor  and   Pollux  had   appeared 
in  the  battle  at  the  Lake  Regillus.     Sacrifices 
had   been    offered  and   accepted.     The    Decii 
had   devoted   themselves,    and  a   victory   had 
been    won.     Oracles    had    been    delivered    at 
iJelphi  and  elsewhere,  containing  clear  proph- 
ecies  of  future  events.       These     events  had 
afterwards  taken   place,  and  a  foresight  which 
was  not  to  be  accounted  for  by  human  sagacity 
was  manifestly  preternatural.     In  Italy  again, 
although  it  had  fallen  lately  into   neglect,  the 
art  of  divination   had  been  practised  from  the 
earliest  period,  and  too  many  instances  could 
be  produced  of   disaster   from  the  neglect   of 
divine  injunctions  so  conveyed  to  admit  of  be- 
ing explained  away.     The  sacred  chickens  had 
refused  to  eat   in  the   First   Punic  War.     Tlie 
Consul    Claudius    had    cried    impatiently   that 
they    should  drink   then,  and    had  flung  them 
into  the    water.     The  Roman    fleet  had    been 
lost  in  consequence,  and   Claudius   had  been 
tried  for  impiety  and   executed.     In    the  tradi- 
tions  of  these    things  fable    uught   have    been 


DIVUS  C^SAR. 


343 


mixed  with  truth,  but  when  all  possible  deduc- 
tions had  been  made  on  the  score  of  historic 
fallibility,  sufficient  evidence  remained  for  an 
cnliirhlcncd  and  reasonable  belief. 

Passing  from  tradition  to  natural  philosophy, 
Balbus  next  appealed  to  the  motion  of  the  stars, 
and  the  regularity  of  the  operations  of  nature. 
Posidonius,  whom  he  called  his  friend,  had 
constructed  an  orrery,  in  which  the  movements 
of  the  sun  and  moon  and  planets,  and  their  re- 
lative positions  throughout  the  year,  were  ex- 
actly represented.  Anticipating  literally  Paley's 
illustration  from  the  watch,  Balbus  asked 
whether,  if  this  machine  were  exhibited  in  Scy- 
thia  or  Britain,  the  veriest  savage  could  avoid 
perceiving  that  it  was  the  work  of  a  designing 
mind.  Pursuing  the  same  line  of  thought,  and 
anticipating  the  Bridgewater  treatises,  he  went 
in  detail  into  the  structure  of  plants  and  ani- 
mals, and  dwelt  on  the  adaptation  of  their  va- 
rious organs  to  thei^r  method  of  life.  The 
Stoics  had  interrogated  nature  in  the  same 
spirit  as  modern  religious  philosophers,  and 
had  arrived  at  the  same  conclusion.  They  be- 
lieved themselves  to  have  found  a  proof  of  con- 
trivance, and  therefore  of  a  contriving  Creator. 
But  the  real  difficulty  remained.  Nature  might 
have  an  intelligent  Author,  yet  intelligence 
was  nothing  without  morality  ;  and  if  the  evi- 
dences of  design  were  abundant,  yet  evidences 
of  moral  government  were  as  conspicuously 
absent.  With  ingenious  boldness  Balbus  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  central  problem,  and 
approached  as  closely,  perhaps,  as  any  mere 
philosopher  has  ever  done  to  the  only  possible 
solution  of  it.  Morality,  when  vigorously  alive, 
sees  farther  than  intellect,  and  provides  un- 
consciously for  intellectual  difficulties.  The 
Latins  had  extended  their  reverence  beyond 
the  mythological  divinities,  and  had  built  tem- 
ples to  the  moral  virtues  as  the  guardian  spirits 
of  mankind.  Constancy  and  Faith,  Valor  and 
Wisdom,  Chastity   and  Piety,   had  each  their 


344 


HISTORICAL  ESS  A  YS. 


separate  altar,  where  human  beings  paid  their 
orisons,  and  prayed  for  strength  to  overcome 
temptation.  '  You  complain,'  said  Balbus, 
'  that  you  can  see  no  sign  of  an  overruling 
Providence  in  the  administration  of  the  uni- 
verse ;  the  Virtues  are  Provid-cnce,  and  them- 
selves constitute  the  moral  government  which 
you  pretend  that  you  cannot  find.  Justice  may 
may  not  be  perfect ;  some  crimes  may  be  left 
unpunished,  some  good  actions  may  be  unre- 
warded. It  is  so  with  earthly  governments, 
and  may  be  so  wiih  the  divine.  It  is  enough 
that  we  see  a  tendency  which  may  become 
stronger  with  time,  and  may  be  carried  out  fur- 
ther in  later  generations.' 

In  the  close  of  his  argument,  he  returns  to 
the  auguries.  It  was  a  historical  fact  that  from 
immemorial  time  the  Etruscans  had  supposed 
that  they  could  read  coming  events  in  the  en- 
trails of  sacrificed  animals.  On  great  occa- 
sions, with  the  utmost  solemnit}'^,  and  in  the 
presence  of  the  highest  functionaries  of  the 
state,  the  body  of  a  calf  or  a  sheep  had  been 
gravely  opened,  and  the  most  important  ac- 
tions had  been  undertaken,  or  laid  aside,  ac- 
cording to  the  conditions  of  the  heart  or  liver 
of  the  dead  animal.  This  was  a  plain  matter 
of  certainty.  The  experiment  would  not  have 
been  repeated  for  so  long  a  time  if  the  events 
had  not  corresponded  to  the  indications  so 
obtained.  Even  Tacitus,  a  century  and  a  half 
later,  could  speak  of  these  foreshadowings  as 
still  fully  credited,  and  as  apparently  estab- 
lished by  evidence.  iJalbus,  however,  was 
content  with  the  fact,  and  laid  little  stress  upon 
it.  He  did  not  profess  to  regard  the  blackened 
liver  of  a  calf  as  caused  by  divine  interposition  ; 
he  regarded  it  merely  as  a  natural  phenomenon 
rising  from  some  internal  correspondence  of 
things. 

On  these  reasonings,  with  more  of  which  in 
a  modern  form  we  are  all  familiar,  the  His;!! 
Priest  proceeded  to  comment    at   length,  and 


DIVUS  CAESAR.  34^ 

with  more  seriousness  than  he  had  sliown  in 
discussing  the  arguments  of  the  Epicureans. 
He  commenced  witli  a  peculiarly  solemn  ref- 
erence to  his  own  official  position,  and  like 
Descartes,  while  doubting  everything  from  the 
point  of  reason,  he  insisted  that  his  private  con- 
victions remained  unshaken,  because  they  re- 
posed on  belief  and  authority.  He  was  Ponti- 
fex  (Pope),  he  repeated.  He  was  appointed 
by  the  State  to  uphold  the  established  creed 
and  ceremonial.  These  he  ever  had  main- 
tained, and  always  would  maintain,  and  no  one, 
learned  or  unlearned,  would  succeed  in  shaking 
his  faitli.  So  far  as  the  truth  of  the  Roman 
religion  was  in  question  he  should  follow  his 
-predecessors  in  the  papal  chair,  Coruncarius, 
Publius  Scipio,  and  Scajvola,  and  not  Zcno,  or 
Cleanthes,  or  Chrysippus.  Caius  Lalius,  the 
augur,  had  more  weight  with  him  than  the 
wisest  philosophers  of  the  porch.  The  cere- 
monial, the  haruspiece,  and  the  Sibylline  books 
were  the  pillars  of  the  Roman  Commonwealth. 
The  foundations  of  it  had  been  laid  in  religion 
by  Romulus  and  Numa,  and  by  the  immortal 
Gods  alone  it  was  sustained.  That  was  his 
position  as  Pontifex. 

'  You  philosophers,  however,'  Cotta  went  on, 
*  appeal  to  reason.  I  myself  believe  without 
reason,  eiiam  nulla  ratione  radditd.  The  author- 
ity of  my  ancestors  is  sufficient  for  me.  ]}ut 
you  reject  authority,  and  you  will  have  reason 
only.  I  must  therefore  set  my  reason  against 
yours,  and  I  tell  you  that  you  with  your  argu- 
ments make  doubtful  what  without  arfrument  is 
not  doubtful  at  all.  Your  appearance  of  Castor 
and  Pollux  at  the  Lake  Regillus  may  be  but  a 
legend.  It  is  unauthenticated  by  certain  his- 
tory. The  Decii  were  probably  only  brave 
men  who  threw  themselves  among  the  enemy, 
knowing  that  their  countrymen  would  follow. 
And  what  a  character  are  you  not  attributing  to 
the  Cjods  when  you  represent  them  as  beings 
whose  favor  must  be  purchased  by  the  sacrifice 


34^ 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


of  good  men  !     You  describe  the  Gods  as  all- 
perfect,  and  omniscient,  and  you  suppose  them 
to  exist  under  conditions  where  no  quality  which 
we  call  good  can  possibly  be  found.     Where 
there  is  no  evil  there  can  be  no  preference  oft 
good  to  evil.     Where  all  is  already  known,  there 
can  be  no  active  intelligence.     Where  wrong-do- 
ing is  impossible,  there  is  no  justice  ;  no  temper- 
ance where  there  is  no  temptation  ;  no  valor 
where  there  is  no  evil  to  be  overcome.     The 
theogonies   of    Hesiod    and    Homer     are     too 
childish  for  belief,  and  when  all  is  said,  there 
remains  the    enigma,  which  you  have  not  re- 
solved :  if  the  Gods  exist,  and  if  the  world  is 
ruled  by  them,  why  is  it  well  with  the  wicked  ? 
and  why  do  the  good  fall  into  calamity  ?     The 
commonwealth  and  the  family  are  ill  ordered 
when  virtue  is  not  rewarded,  and  crime  is  not 
punished  :   so  far  as  we  can  trace  the  action  of 
the  Gods  no  such  distinction  is  made.     Argue 
as  you  will,  this  is  the  fact.     In  the  distribution 
of  good  and  evil,  so  far  as  it  is  left  to  forces 
external  to  man,  no  question    is  asked  sbout 
character.     You  say  that  w-e  ought   not  to  be 
surprised  if   the    Gods   do   not   punish   every 
crime,  because    earthly  governments    do    not. 
W^here  is  the  analogy  ?     Earthly  governments 
fail  for  want  of  knowledge.     You  leave  no  such 
excuse  for  the  Gods,  for  the  Gods  are  assumed 
to  be    omniscient.     You  say  that  though   the 
wicked  man    may  himself   escape,  his   crimes 
may  be    visited  on   his   children.     Wonderful 
justice  !     What  should  we  say  of  a  common- 
wealth where  the  law  condemned  the  son  or 
crrandson  for  the  sins  of  his  father }     In  the 
system  of  nature  there  is  no  rule  of  a  just  God 
descernible.     One  event   comes   alike  to   all. 
Men,  cities,  nations,  perish  undeservedly,  be- 
cause, forsooth,  God  cannot  attend    to  every- 
thing.    And  yet  you  expect  us  to  pray  to  him  ! 
It  cannot  be. 

So  far  in  substance  the  Pontiff  Gotta  ;  and 
with  Cottu's  scci>licistn  the  dialogue  ends.     A 


DIVUS  CyESAR. 


347 


fourth  speaker,  especially  if  he  could  have  had 
the  light  of  later  history  to  guide  him,  might 
have  shown  Cotta  that  his  own  foundations 
were  as  feeble  as  those  whicli  he  overthrew. 
We,  too,  have  heard  of  faith  wliich  rests  upon 
authority,  and  dispeiises  with  reason  ;  Init 
what  does  authority  rest  upon  ?  Such  a  faith 
may  prolong  a  sickly  existence  for  one  or 
more  generations,  but  it  cannot  endure  the 
buffets  of  practical  life.  Questions  to  which  it 
can  give  no  reasonable  answer  hang  multiply- 
ing like  barbed  arrows  in  its  side.  The  cere- 
monial becomes  stereotyped.  The  faith  re- 
solves itself  into  words  repeated  without  con- 
viction. Packthread  might  as  easily  hold  a 
giant  gone  insane,  as  arguments  for  the  prob- 
able truth  of  the  Pagan  religion  hold  in  check 
the  wolfish  appetites  of  unbelieving  mankind; 
In  Cicero's  time  the  once  God-fearing  Latins 
had  become  a  commonwealth  of  Atheists,  in 
which  chastity  and  innocence  blushed  to  show 
them  selves,  and  corruption  had  lost  the  con- 
scious ness  of  its  own  deformity.  Three  con- 
quered continents  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  Repub- 
lic. The  oligarchy  and  the  democracy  were 
snarling  and  fighting  over  their  prey.  Italy 
was  torn  with  civil  wars,  and  decimated  by 
proscriptions.  Ordered  freedom  was  lost  iil 
anarchy,  and  the  state  was  staggering  in  drunk- 
en frenzy.  The  senators  sold  justice,  and 
great  ladies  sold  their  persons,  to  the  highest 
bidder.  The  provinces  were  stripped  to  the 
bone  by  the  proitors.  'J'he  praetors  spent  their 
sjioils  in  gluttony  and  bestiality.  As  to  religion, 
and  the  respect  which  authority  could  command 
for  it,  Cotta's  successor  in  the  Pontificate  was 
young  Caisar,  notorious  than  for  the  dissolute- 
ness of  his  habits,  and  for  an  intellect  which 
for  many  years  he  appeared  to  disdain  to  use. 
P'or  the  constitution,  it  had  fallen  into  such 
extraordinary  contempt,  that  Catiline,  with  a 
small  knot  of  fashionable  young  men,  had  pro- 
posed to  burn  the  city  ami  kill  the  consuls  and 


!54S 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


half  the  patricians.  Yet  Rome  was  so  con- 
rjcious  of  its  own  worthlessness  as  to  be  almost 
incapable  of  indignation  ;  although  the  plot  was 
discovered,  and  Catiline  knew  that  it  was  dis- 
covered, he  could  venture  to  attend  the  Senate 
House,  and  sit  and  listen  while  the  particulars 
of  it  were  detailed  by  Cicero.  He  could  walk 
out  unmolested,  continue  his  preparations  at 
leisure,  leave  the  city  without  an  attempt  at 
arrest,  and  put  himself  at  the  head  of  an  open 
insurrection. 

To  this  it  had  come  in  the  first  capital  of  the 
world,  and  the  most  advanced  nation  of  it,  be- 
cause, in  the  Hebrew  language,  they  had  for- 
gotten God.  They  had  no  belief  remaining 
in  any  divine  rule  over  them.  The  cement 
was  gone  which  held  society  together,  and  the 
entire  fabric  of  it  had  fallen  in  shapeless  ruin. 
Some  vast  change  was  inevitable,  some  power- 
ful reassertion  of  the  elementary  principles  of 
authority  and  justice,  or  the  enormous  Roman 
empire  would  have  burst  like  a  bubble. 

In  recorded  history  no  single  man  (perhaps 
with  the  exception  of  Mahomet)  has  produced 
effects  so  vast  and  so  enduring  as  Julius  Cajsar. 
It  is  the  more  remarkable  that  in  no  language, 
ancient  or  modern,  is  there  any  adequate 
biography  of  him.  To  Lucan  he  was  an  incar- 
nation of  Satan.  Suetonius,  the  fullest  au- 
thority on  his  early  li(e,  accepted  and  recorded 
.every  scandalous  libel  which  was  current  in 
patrician  coteries.  To  Suetonius  the  loose 
songs  of  the  Roman  soldiers  were  sufficient 
evidence  to  charge  Ca;sar  with  infamy.  With 
as  much  reason  similar  accusations  might  be 
brought  against  Nelson  or  Collingwood,  be- 
cause, in  loose  affectionate  talk,  they  were 
freely  spoken  of  in  the  English  fleet  under 
the  name  which  Johnson  defines  as  a  term  of 
endearment  among  sailors.  To  Cicero  Cx-sar 
a))pcared  at  first  as  a  young  man  of  genius  and 
fashion,  who  was  wasting  time  and  talents, 
while  he  was  himself  improving  both.     As  the 


DIVUS   CyJiSAR. 


349 


talents  showed  themselves  more  unmistakably, 
and  Cicero  was  obliged  to  allow  that  Cx*sar's 
powers  as  an  orator,  when  he  cared  to  use 
them,  were  as  great  as  his  own,  that  his  style 
as  a  writer  was  unmatched,  that  his  influence 
almost  without  effort  was  growing,  and,  worse 
still,  when  it  appeared  that  he  was  the  advocate 
of  the  democracy,  contempt  and  pity  changed 
to  fear  and  suspicion.  And  as  Caisar  at  last 
towered  up  above  both  him  and  all  his  con- 
temporaries, Cicero  came  to  dread  and  hate 
him,  and  sate  approving  in  the  Senate  when 
he  was  murdered.  Thus  from  Cicero,  except 
in  scattered  glimpses,  we  gather  no  credible 
picture,  and  we  are  driven  back  to  Caesar  him- 
self, who  in  his  '  Commentaries  '  has  left  the 
most  lucid  of  all  military  narratives ;  but,  ex- 
cept in  the  studied  absence  of  self-glorification, 
and  in  a  few  sentences  in  which  for  a  moment 
he  allows  us  to  see  into  his  own  inner  nature, 
he  leaves  us  scarcely  better  provided  with  the 
means  of  understanding  him.  Patrician  con- 
stitutionalists, judging  as  men  do  by  the  event, 
were  assured  that  he  had  early  conceived  an 
intention  of  overthrowing  the  republic ;  and 
that  his  object  in  obtaining  his  command  in 
Gaul  was  merely  to  secure  the  support  of  an 
army  to  bring  about  his  country's  ruin.  Noth- 
ing can  be  less  likely.  A  conspirator  would 
never  have  chosen  so  circuitous  a  road,  or  one 
so  little  tending,  according  to  common  laws 
of  probability,  to  lead  to  his  object.  He  was 
past  forty  before  he  began  to  show  what  was 
in  him.  May  it  not  have  been  rather  that  he 
remained  in  Rome,  hoping  that  some  useful 
career  might  open  for  him,  till  the  steady 
growing  anarchy  and  corruption  taught  him 
that  nothing  was  to  be  looked  for  there  'i  Life 
was  slipping  away,  and  he  wished  to  accom- 
plish something  memorable  before  he  died. 
The  Germans  were  pouring  in  over  the  Rhine. 
But  for  Caisar  Ariovistus  might  have  been  an 
Alaric,  and  Europe  might  have  been  Teutonizcd 


350  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

four  centuries  before  its  time.     In   ten  years 
Caesar  had  forced  back  the  Germans  into  their 
forests.     He   had   invaded   Britain.     Gaul    he 
had  not   merely  overrun   wilh   his  armies  and 
coerced  into  submission,  but  he  liad  won  the 
affection  of  the  people  wliom  he  had  subdued. 
The    Gauls    became   an    integral    part  of   the 
Roman  nation,  and  infused  new  vitality  into 
the  brain  and  sinew  of  the  empire.     For  such 
a  service  the  reward  which  the  Roman  aristoc- 
racy considered  him  to  deserve   was  degrada- 
tion, dishonor,  and  afterwards,  of  course,  death. 
The    common    sense    of   mankind    repudiated 
the  enormous  injustice.     His  adoring  legions, 
instead   of  demanding  pay  to    remain  on  his 
side,  contributed  out  of  their  own  purses  the 
expenses   of  the   wars   which    followed.      The 
aristocracy  died  hard.     The  flower  of  them  fell 
at  Pharr-alia.     With  the  degrading  support  of 
the  Numidian  chiefs,  they  fought  through  afresh 
campaign   in   Africa.     When   Cato    h.ad   fallen 
on  his  sword  at  Utica,  the  scattered  fragments 
of  Pompey's  and  Scipio's  armies  drifted  into 
Spain,  and  threw  their  last  stake  in  a  desperate 
struggle  upon  the   Ebro.      Then  it  was  over, 
The    Republican    constitution   of   Rome    had 
fallen,  destroyed  by  its  own  vices.     Ctesar  was 
sole  sovereign  of  the  civilized  world  ;  and  so 
effectively  the  work  was  accomplished  that  his 
own  death  could  not  undo  it.     Order  and  au- 
thority were  re-established  under  a  militaryem- 
j^irc,  and  the  Roman  dominion  which  had  been 
on    the    edge    of   dissolution,  received  a    new 
lease  of  existence.     Was  it  to  be  wondered  at 
if  men  said  that  the  doer  of  such  an  exploit 
was  something  more  than    man  ?     Cffisar  had 
found  the  world  going  to  pieces  in  madness 
and  corruption.     All  that  mankind  Jiad  gained 
from  the  beginning  of  recorded  time,  all  that 
Greece  had  bequeathed  of  art  and  culture,  all 
the    fruits  of  the    long  struggles    of  Rome   to 
coerce  unwilling  barbarians  into  obedience  to 
law,  was  on  the  brink  of  perishing.     The  hu- 


DIVUS  CAlSAR. 


351 


man  race  might  have  fallen  back  into  primeval 
savagery.  C^sar,  by  his  own  resolute  will,  had 
taken  anarchy  by  the  throat  and  destroyed  it. 
Quirinus  the  hrst  founder  of  Rome,  was  called 
a  God.  Was  there  not  here  a  greater  than 
Quirinus  .''  Philosophers  had  cried  despairing- 
ly that  the  Gods  (if  Gods  existed)  had  no  care 
for  man.  Had  not  a  living  God  come  among 
them  in  the  form  of  man.?  Was  not  Caesar  a 
God  > 

There  is  a  doubt  whether  Cassar  himself,  in 
his  own  lifetime,  permitted  the  indulgence  of 
these  fancies.  Probably  not.  So  calm,  so  ra- 
tional an  intellect  was  not  so  easily  intoxicated, 
nor  was  it  like  him  to  encourage,  for  political 
reasons,  any  lying  exaggerations.  Seutonius 
says  that  he  allowed  honors  to  be  paid  to  hun 
— ampliora  /iiiviaiio  fast'r^io — that  temples  were 
raised  to  him,  with  sacrificing  priests,  and  his 
own  image  above  the  altars.  Tacitus,  a  far 
better  authoritv,  savs  that  Nero  was  the  first  of 
the  Coesars  who  was  officially  recognized  as  a 
God  before  his  death,  '  the  Emperors  not  hith- 
erto receiving  this  distinction  until  their  so- 
journ upon  earth  was  ended.'*  So  far  as  can 
be  seen,  Caisar  had  personally  no  religious 
convictions  whatever.  He  had  no  belief  in  a 
future  life.  He  considered  death  to  be  the 
limit  of  human  existence,  and  on  existence  in 
the  present  life  he  set  but  little  value.  When 
warned  of  the  conspiracy  to  kill  him,  he  re- 
fused to  take  precautions.  He  had  lived  long 
enough,  and  did  not  care  to  continue.  What- 
ever, however,  might  have  been  his  own 
thoughts  upon  the  subject,  the  popular  feeling 
was  not  to  be  restrained.  He  was  enrolled 
among  the  twelve  Gods.  The  month  of  T^dv, 
which  still  bears  his  name,  was  allotted  to  hnn 
in  the  Fasti.  His  successor  was  but  carrying 
out  the  universal  wishes  of   the  army  and  llic 

*  *  Nam  Dciim  honor  Principi  non  ante  habetur  quam 
agcrc  inter  homines  dcsierit. — 'Tacitus'  Amiah,  lib.  xv., 
c-rip.  74. 


352 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


people  when  he  built  a  temple  to  him  and  in- 
stituted a  formal  service  there.  At  the  time  of 
his  consecration  a  briUiant  and  unfamiliar  star 
was  seen  for  several  nights  in  the  sky,  and  was 
generally  regarded  as  the  spirit  of  Cajsar. 
That  he  had  been  received  up  into  heaven, 
Suetonius  says,  was  not  merely  a  figure  of 
speech,  but  the  real  conviction  of  mankind. 

Augustus,  who  had  been  brought  up  by  Ck- 
sar,  shared  probably  in  his  uncle's  opinions  on 
these  subjects.  Legend  said  that,  when  a 
young  man,  Augustus  had  made  one  of  a  fa- 
mous supper  party — Coena 
— 'supper  of  the  twelve  Gods — '  where  each 
guest  had  represented  a  God  or  Goddess,  and 
Augustus  had  personated  Apollo. 

The  authoritv  was  onlv  certain  notiss'uni  I'cr- 
sus — verses  well  known  in  Rome  a  hundred 
vears  after.  The  storv  is  out  of  character  with 
Augustus,  and  is  probably  a  lie.* 

Ca;sar  had  named  him  his  heir,  with  a  just 
insight  into  his  extraordinary  qualities.  He 
returned  the  confidence  which  had  been  placed 
in  him  with  a  profound  veneration  to  Caesar's 
memory ;  and  when  the  first  confusion  was 
over  which  followed  Caesar's  death,  when  the 
attempt  to  re-establish  the  constitution  had 
utterly  failed,  and  the  popular  will  had  ratified 
Ccesar's  disposition  and  raised  him  to  the 
throne,  Augustus  set  himself  witli  a  feeling  of 
sacred  obligation  to  punish  the  murderers.  In 
three  years  not  one  of  the  whole  of  them  sur- 
vived :  ]]rutus,  Cassius,  Casca,  all  were  gone 
— some  killed,  some  falling  by  their  own 
liands  ;  Cicero  himself,  an  accomplice  though 
not  an   actor,  not  escaping,  having  no  longer 

*  Cum  primum  istorum  conduxit  mensa  Choragum, 
Scxqiic  Deos  vidit  Mallia  sexqiie  ])cas, 
Impia  dum  I'hocbi  Ciusar  mcndacia  ludit, 

])um  nova  Divorum  acnat  adulteria, 
Omnia  sc  a  terris  tr.nc  luimina  dcclinaruiit 
Futjit  ct  auratos  Jupiter  ijjsc  toros. 

Suetonius,  '  De  Vila  Odavii* 


DIVUS   C/ESAR.  353 

Cffisar  to  protect  him.  Scribimt  quidain,  says 
Suetonius,  not  undertaking,  however,  to  vouch 
for  their  accuracy,  that,  on  the  Ides  of  March, 
after  the  fall  of  Perusia,  three  hundred  se- 
lected prisoners  were  sacrificed  at  an  altar  to 
Divus  Julius.  Augustus  had  no  predilection 
for  melodrama.  If  the  story  is  true,  it  was  an 
extraordinary  illustration  of  the  fanaticism  to 
which  he  was  compelled  to  condescend.  More 
probably  a  severe  e.xample  was  made  of  the 
Perusians.  Some  passionate  partisan  may  have 
said  that  the  victims  were  offered  to  the  manes 
of  the  Dictator,  and  a  metaphor,  as  often  hap- 
pens, may  have  passed  into  a  fact. 

However  this  may  be,  Augustus  was  no 
sooner  settled  in  the  purple  than  he  endeavored 
to  bury  the  recollections  of  the  civil  war  in  a 
general  amnesty.  Society  had  grown  ashamed 
of  its  orgies,  and  returned  to  simpler  habits  of 
life,  and  the  emperor  led  the  way  in  the  reform. 
Like  Charles  V.,  Augustus  banished  plate  from 
his  household,  and  was  served  with  the  plainest 
food  on  the  plainest  earthenware.  He  slept 
on  a  truckle  bed  without  hangings.  His  fur- 
niture was  vix  privaice  ch'^aniicc,  scarcely  fine 
enough  for  a  private  gentleman.  His  dress 
was  'homespun,  not  distinguishable  from  the 
dresses  of  his  attendants,  and  to  emphasize 
the  example,  was  manufactured  by  the  Empress 
and  his  daughter.  With  the  improvement  in 
manners  there  set  in  also  one  of  those  periodi- 
cal revivals  of  religious  sentiment  with  which 
history  at  such  times  is  familiar,  Augustus, 
either  from  poUcy  or  because  the  feelings 
which  could  influence  Horace  had  also  influ- 
enced him,  encouraged  the  symptoms  of  rccov- 
erino-  piety.  Like  his  uncle  he  was  Poniifex 
Maximus ;'  but  unlike  him  he  made  his  office 
a  reality.  Caesar  had  defied  auguries,  Augus- 
tus never  ventured  an  important  act  without 
consulting  the  haruspices.  Ilis  name,  accord- 
ing to  Suetonius,  he  derived  from  his  attention 
to  the  flight  of  birds — tanquatii  ab  avium  gcsiis 


354 


HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 


— the  birds,  as  inhabitants  of  the  air,  being 
the  supposed  messengers  between  earth  and 
sk3\  If  the  etymology  is  incorrect,  the  sugges- 
tion of  it  is  an  evidence  of  the  popular  belief 
in  this  feature  of  the  imperial  character.  He 
was  punctilious  in  each  and  all  of  his  religious 
observances.  He  reformed  the  priesthood,  he 
revised  the  canon  of  the  Sibylline  books,  and 
destroyed  the  apocryphal  additions.  He  held, 
like  Cotta,  to  the  traditions  of  his  fathers, 
looked  unfavorably  on  heresies  and  new  opin- 
ions, and  forbade  the  novel  forms  of  worship 
which  with  the  turn  of  fashion  were  coming  in 
from  the  East. 

For  himself,  notwithstanding  the  language 
addressed  to  him  by  Horace,  he  declined, 
while  he  was  alive,  any  public  recognition  of 
his  superhuman  qualities.  He  did  not  permit 
himself  to  be  addressed  as  Dominus  or  Lord.* 
No  shrines  or  temples  were  erected  to  him  in 
Kome,  and  in  the  provinces  only  in  connection 
with  the  genius  of  the  empire.  On  public 
buildings  at  Ephesus,  lie  is  found,  from  inscrip- 
tions on  recently  discovered  buildings  there,  to 
have  been  described  by  the  singular  title  Yto; 
©eou,  'Son  of  God.'  it  is  curious  to  consider 
that  St,  Paul  must  have  seen  these  words  there. 
The  idea  of  the  Sonship  was  already  not  un- 
familiar. Nevertheless,  notwithstanding  his 
inodesty,  it  is  certain  that  throughout  the  Ro- 
man dominions  Augustus  was  regarded,  not 
only  as  the  Son  of  (jod,  but  as  an  incarnation 
of  God — "xprceseiis  Divus,  a  second  revelation 
in  the  flesh  of  the  reality  of  the  celestial 
powers  ;  and  during  his  long  reign  the  harassed 
peasant,  who  at  last  could  till  his  farm  and  eat 
his  bread  in  safety,  poured  libations  with  un- 
hesitating faith  to  the  divinity  of  the  luiiiDcror. 
On  his  death  the  popular  belief  received  offi- 
cial ratification.  In  the  Fasti  he  was  placed 
next  to  Julius.     The  uncle  and  nephew  became 

*' Domino  ai)pcl!ationcin  ut  nialedictum  ct  approbri- 
uni   semper  exhurruit.' 


DIVUS  CMSAR. 


355 


the  tutelary  deities  of  the  fairest  months  in  the 
year.  Legends  gathered  about  his  history. 
He  was  found  to  have  been  born  of  a  virgin. 
His  mother  had  conceived  him  in  a  vision  in 
the  Temple  of  Apollo.  The  jilace  of  his  na- 
tivity was  held  sacred.  No  curious  visitor  was 
allowed  to  intrude  there.  No  one  might  enter, 
except  to  pray.  A  still  more  remarkable  story 
was  believed  in  Rome  in  Suetonius'  time,  on 
the  authority  of  Julius  Marathus,  which  it  is 
difficult  to  suppose  was  not  in  some  way  con- 
nected with  the  Gospel  history.  A  few  months 
before  his  birth  a  prodigy  was  observed,  which 
the  augurs  interpreted  to  mean  that  a  child 
was  coming  into  the  world  who  was  to  be  King 
of  Rome.  The  Senate  passed  a  vote  that  no 
infant  born  in  that  year  should  be  allowed  to 
live.* 

Any  superstition  is  tolerable  so  long  as  it  is 
sincerely  believed,  so  long  as  it  is  a  motive  to 
moral  conduct,  and  makes  men  morally  better 
than  they  would  have  been  without  it.  Under 
Augustus  Cajsar  the  language  of  Virgil's  Fourth 
Eclogue  was  scarcely  more  than  a  hyperbole. 
Society,  in  the  last  pangs  of  dissolution,  had 
been  restored  to  life,  and  if  the  Divine  rule 
over  the  world  be  a  rule  of  justice,  the  public 
administration  under  the  second  Cassar  must 
have  seemed,  when  compared  with  the  age 
which  preceded  it,  like  the  return  of  Astrasa. 
And  again,  if  we  look  at  the  ulterior  purposes 
of  Providence,  it  was  the  consolidation  of  the 
empire,  the  establishment  of  peace,  order,  and 
a  common  government  round  the  basin  of  the 
Mediterranean,  which  enabled  the  Apostles  to 
carry  Christianity  through  the  world,   and  to 

*  '  Auctor  est  Julius  Maratlius  ante  paucos  quam  iias- 
ceretur  menses  ijrodigiuni  Ronisc  factum  jjublice  cjuo 
cienuntiabaUir  legem  populi  Ivomani  natiiiam  parturire. 
Senatum  exterritum  censuissc  no  quis  illo  anno  genitus 
educaretur:  eos  qui  gravidas  uxores  liaberent,  quod  ad 
se  quisque  spcm  traheret,  curasse  ne  senatus  consultum 
ad  a3rariuni  dcferatur.'— Suetonius,  De  Vita  Octavii, 
cap.  94. 


356 


HISTORICAL  ESSA  YS. 


offjanize  a  Catholic  Church ;  while  the  chief 
difficulties  were  already  removed  which  would 
have  interfered  with  the  acceptance  of  the 
Christian  creed.  Already  the  Roman  world 
believed  that  a  Son  of  God  who  was  himself 
God  had  been  born  upon  earth  of  a  human 
mother  and  a  Divine  Father,  that  he  had 
reigned  as  a  king,  that  he  had  established  his 
dominion  over  mankind,  and  that  after  his 
death  he  had  gone  back  to  Heaven,  from  which 
he  had  descended,  there  to  remain  forever. 

It  was  in  no  figure  of  speech  that  St.  Paul 
spoke  of  the  secular  power  as  ordained  of  God. 
So  far  as  the  power  was  the  instrument  of 
justice,  so  far  as  it  was  an  instrument  of  Provi- 
dence, it  was  the  power  of  God  ;  and  yet  a 
brief  trial  sufficed  to  exhaust  the  divinity  of  the 
imperial  purple.  The  general  administration 
continued  to  be  tolerable  for  centuries  ;  but 
the  imperial  dignity  tended  to  become  heredi- 
tary ;  to  be  born  to  mere  earthly  greatness  is  a 
severe  trial ;  and  the  youth  never  existed  who 
could  be  educated  uninjured  in  the  belief  that 
he  was  more  than  a  man.  When  Herod  spoke, 
the  people  said  it  was  the  voice  of  God,  and  he 
was  smitten  with  worms  because  he  gave  not 
God  the  glory.  The  younger  Ca-sars  were 
smitten  with  the  genius  of  wickedness,  as  a  re- 
buke even  more  significant  to  the  unpermitted 
and  audacious  assumption,  Tiberius  and  Clau- 
dius were  neither  of  them  born  in  the  purple, 
and  however  atrocious  their  conduct,  their 
crimes  were  not  traceable  to  their  pretensions 
to  divinitv.  Tiberius  was  a  man  of  science  -and 
a  fatalist,*  and,  amidst  his  enormous  vices,  did 
not  pretend  to  powers  of  which  he  disbelieved 
the  existence,  Claudius  was  a  miserable  ped- 
ant, whom  Augustus  had  considered  unfit  for 
any  higher  office  than  that  of  a  chief  priest 
{iigurale  saccniotimn),  and  when  Claudius  was 

*  Circa  Deos  ac  rcligiones  ncgligcntior  quippe  ad- 
dictiis  nialhemalica;,  ixjisuasionisciuc  picuus  cuiicta 
fatu  agi.' — Suctuuiub. 


DIVUS  CyKSAR. 


357 


made  a  God  at  liis  death,  the  universal  ridicule 
showed  that  already  the  divinity  of  the  Caisars 
was  passinc^  into  a  jest.  It  had  hardly  survived 
Caligula.  Caligula,  the  son  of  Gernianicus,  who, 
if  bred  as  a  soldier,  might  have  been  a  useful 
centurion,  being  brought  up  a  Caesar,  was  the 
strangest  ligure  which  ever  sat  upon  a  European 
throne.  He  was  a  savage,  and  he  knew  it. 
When  they  told  him  he  was  a  God,  in  grotes- 
que mockery  of  himself  and  his  instructors 
he  challenged  Jupiter  Capitolinus  to  fight,  and 
Jupiter  not  responding,  he  took  the  head  from 
his  statue  and  replaced  it  with  his  own.  He 
stood  on  the  temple  steps  and  bade  the  people 
pray  to  him.  He  appointed  a  chapter  of  priests 
to  offer  sacrifices  to  him,  the  choicest  that 
could  be  found  {excogitatisswtas  hostias),  and 
either  in  servility  or  in  the  same  spirit  of  wild 
riot,  the  patricians  contended  for  the  honor  of 
admission   to    the  extraordinary  order. 

The  translation  of  Claudius  '  among  the  pump- 
kins' was  another  step  downwards  ;  but  worse 
was  to  come.  Claudius  had  been  more  sinned 
atrainst  than  sinninir.  Caliscula  had  a  trait  of 
humor  in  him.  His  profanities  had  been  ex- 
pressions rather  of  his  contempt  for  the  base- 
ness of  the  court,  than  of  any  conceit  of  his 
own  greatness.  It  remained  for  Nero,  the 
pupil  of  Seneca,  the  accomplished  artist,  poet, 
painter,  sculptor,  musician,  public  singer;  the 
sentimentalist,  who  sighed  when  called  to 
sign  a  death-warrant,  and  wished  that  he  had 
never  learned  to  write  ;  who,  when  told 
that  three  legions  had  revolted,  said  that 
he  would  recover  them  to  their  allegiance  with 
his  tears — reserved  for  him  to  exhibit,  as  a 
prcescnse  Divus,  the  most  detestable  qualities 
which  have  been  ever  witnessed  in  combination 
in  anv  human  being.  For  Nero  exhausted  the 
list  of  possible  enormities,  le'aving  not  one 
crime  unperpetrated  of  which  man  is  capable, 
and  always  in  the  most  hideous  of  forms.  To 
make  his  wickedness  complete,  he  was  without 


358 


HISTORICAL  ESS  A  YS. 


the  temptation  of  violent  appetites,  which,  in 
reducing  man  to  a  beast,  give  him  in  some 
degree  the  excuses  of  a  beast.  He  was  cruel, 
without  being  naturally  ferocious:  he  was  de- 
praved,  yet  he  had  little  capacity  for  sensual 
enjoyment ;  and,  with  intellect  suf^cient  to  know 
what  was  good,  he  chose  evil  from  deliberate 
perference  of  it. 

A  famous  French  actress  watched  by  death- 
beds in  the  hospitals,  that  she  might  study  the 
art  of  expiring  on  the  stage.  The  bolder  Nero 
committed  incest  with  his  mother  that  he  might 
realise  the  sensations  of  CEdipus,  and  murdered 
her  that  he  might  comprehend  the  situation  of 
Orestes.  Under  Nero's  fearful  example  the 
imperial  court  of  Rome  became  a  gilded  brothel. 
Chastity  was  turned  into  a  jest,  vice  was  virtue, 
and  fame  lay  in  excess  of  infamy.  The  wisest 
sunk  to  the  level  of  the  worst.  Seneca  com- 
posed a  vindication  of  the  assassination  of 
Agrippina,  accusing  her  of  having  conspired 
against  her  son.  The  Senate  decreed  a  thanks- 
giving to  the  Gods  for  Nero's  deliverance  from 
Agrippina's  treachery.  The  few  honorable 
men,  like  Paetus  Thrasea  and  Soranus,  who 
refused  to  follow  with  the  stream,  were 
made  away  with  ;  as  if  the  emperor  desired,  in 
the  tremendous  language  of  Tacitus  ,  virtutem 
ipsatn  excindcre — to  cut  out  virtue  itself  by  the 
roots  ;  and  with  a  yet  stranger  appropriateness 
than  even  Tacitus  himself  could  recognize, 
when  Nero  had  set  Rome  on  lire,  he  selected 
the  Christian  converts  as  scapegoats  for  his 
guilt.  He  smeared  them  with  pitch,  and  set 
them  to  blaze  as  torches  in  his  gardens  to  light 
his  midnight  revels.  What  those  revels  were 
no  modern  language  can  decently  reveal.  In  a 
torchlight  festival  on  Agrippa's  lake,  the  nob- 
lest ladies  in  Rome  appeared  as  naked  pros- 
titutes, the  emperor  sailing  up  and  down  among 
them  in  his  barge.  Tacitus  must  tell  the  rest 
in  his  own  words:  Ipse  per  licita  afqne  illicita 
fccdatits   nihil  Jhxgitii  reliqucrai  quo  corruptior 


Dims   CALSAR.  35Q 

agerct,  nisi pancos  post  dies  niii  ex  illocontamina- 
toriim  grege  cni  nomcii  Pythagorcc  fiiit  in  modinn 
solefmiinvi  coiijiigiornvi  tieiiupsissef.  Itniituni 
Iviperatori  daviineitin — visi  aitspiecs — dos  et geni- 
alis  torus  ct faces  ntiptiales.  Cuncta  dcniqiie. 
spsetata  qucc  ctiam  ijifcemina  iiox  opcrit.  (Tacit. 
Ann.  IS,  37.) 

After  tliese  outrages  it  seems  a  desecration 
of  a  sacred  word  to  speak  of  Nero  in  connec- 
tion with  religion  ;  yet  it  was  Nero's  destiny  in 
this  world  to  fulfil  the  measure  of  perfect  in- 
famy. As  he  had  destroyed  virtue,  one 
further  step  was  necessary — to  destroy  the 
belief  in  any  source  of  virtue.  He  was  an 
artist,  as  was  said  :  Qiialis  artifcx  pcreo  were 
his  words  when  he  was  dying.  He  was  with- 
out conscience  and  therefore  could  have  no 
reverence.  He  was  fearless,  and  had  no  super- 
stition. Belief  of  his  own  he  had  none,  save 
for  a  time  in  the  Syrian  goddess  of  indecency, 
to  whom  he  was  soon  worse  than  faithless.* 
The  Syrian  Goddess  being  repudiated,  his  ob- 
ject of  worship  was  afterwards  a  female 
statuette  {icnntula  pueUaris^.  He  had  some 
notion  of  fate  ;  for  fate,  he  had  a  strange  im- 
agination, was  to  make  him  one  day  '  King  of 
the  Jews.'  But  Nero  was  his  own  God  and 
maker  of  Gods,  and  belief  in  God  became  im- 
possible when  Nero  was  regarded  as  a  persona- 
tion of  him.  On  medals  and  in  public  instru- 
ments he  solemnly  assumed  the  name  of  Jupiter. 
He,  too,  had  his  temples  and  his  priests.  He 
had  murdered  his  vvife  Octavia  ;  he  afterwards 
kicked  to  death  his  mistress  Poppaea ;  but  while 
Poppaea  was  in  favor  she  shared  his  divine 
honors  with  him,  and  a  child  which  she  bore 
to  him  was  to  have  been  a  God  too,  had  it  not 
unfortunately  died. 

To    this    pass    the   world  had   come   in  the 
kingdom   of   heaven   upon   earlli  which  was  to 

*  '  Religiomim  usque  quaqiie  contcniptor,  i^racter 
unius  ]>ea;  Syr'ai.  Ilanc  mfix  ita  sprcvit  lit  urina  con- 
taminaret.*— Suetonius,  De  Vitd  Neronis. 


360  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

have  been  realized  by  the  divinity  of  the 
Ccesars.  It  is  startling  to  remember  that  Nero 
was  the  Ccusar  to  whom  St.  Paul  appealed,  that 
it  was  in  tiic  Rome  of  Nero  that  St.  Paul  dwelt 
two  years  in  his  own  house,  that  it  was  in  the 
household  of  Nero  that  he  found  or  made  con- 
verts to  Christianity.  The  parricides,  the  in- 
cests, the  wholesale  murders,  the  '  abomination 
of  desolation '  in  the  polluted  saloons  of  the 
palace,  were  actually  witnessed  by  persons 
with  whom  he  was  in  daily  intercourse.  St. 
Paul  with  his  own  eyes  may  have  seen  '  the  son 
of  perdition  sitting  in  the  temple  of  God, 
showing  that  he  was  God,'  and  we  need  go  no 
further  to  look  for  his  meaning.  Yet  in  his 
Epistles  written  from  Rome  he  says  little  of 
these  things.  Those  words  are  perhaps  his 
only  allusion  to  them. 

The  administration  of  Augustus  was  the 
most  perfect  system  of  secular  government 
ever  known,  and  the  attributes  assigned  to 
Augustus  were  the  apotheosis  of  it.  The  prin- 
ciple of  Augustus  was  the  establishment  of  law 
and  order,  of  justice  and  decency  of  conduct. 
Of  the  heroic  virtues,  or  even  the  modest 
virtues  of  purity  and  sense  of  moral  responsi- 
bility, such  a  system  knew  nothing,  and  offered 
no  motive  for  moral  enthusiasm.  Order  and 
law  and  decency  are  the  body  of  society,  but 
are  a  body  without  a  soul  ;  and,  without  a 
soul,  the  body,  however  vigorous  its  sinews, 
must  die  and  go  to  corruption.  Human  im- 
provement is  from  within  outwards.  A  state 
which  can  endure  must  be  composed  of  mem- 
bers who  all  in  their  way  understand  what 
duty  means  and  endeavor  to  do  it.  Duty  im- 
plies genuine  belief  in  some  sovereign  spiritual 
power.  Spiritual  regeneration  comes  first, 
moral  after  it,  political  and  social  last.  To 
reverse  the  order  is  to  plant  a  flower  which  has 
been  cut  from  its  natural  stem,  which  can  bloom 
but  for  a  day  and  die. 

The  wavs  of   Providence   are  obscure  and 


DIVUS  CALSAR.  361 

perplexing,  but  scenes  such  ns  those  which 
Rome  had  witnessed  under  Nero  are  not  acted 
on  this  planet  in  the  most  neglected  condition 
of  it  without  retribution.  Nero  perished 
miserablv,  and  on  the  accursed  citv  which  had 
sinned  with  him  the  wrath  of  Heaven,  or 
destiny,  or  nature,  or  whatever  it  may  be  called, 
was  not  long  in  falling.  We  read  in  the 
Roman  historians  of  military  revolutions,  of 
three  emperors  enthroned  and  killed  in  less 
than  as  many  years,  of  provinces  wasted  and 
cities  stormed  and  burnt.  The  page  before  us 
is  stained  with  no  blood  :  slayers  and  slain, 
conquerors  and  conquered,  are  words,  and 
words  only.  The  events  recorded  are  far  off, 
and  stir  no  longer  any  emotions  of  terror  or 
pity.  Yet  those  years  were  an  outpouring  of 
the  wrath  of  the  Almighty  on  polluted  Italy. 
The  armies  of  the  several  frontiers  demanded 
the  purple  for  their  favorite  'commanders,  and 
gathered  down  upon  the  peninsula  to  make 
good  their  furious  pleasure.  They  came  from 
Spain  and  from  the  Rhine,  from  the  Danube, 
from  Britain,  from  the  Euphrates,  from 
Egypt.  The  empire  was  like  an  oak,  hollow 
at  the  heart,  but  vigorous  in  the  branches.  The 
legions,  recruited  no  longer  from  the  Latin 
peasants,  were  filled  with  Gauls  and  Spaniards, 
Thracians  and  Germans — fierce  animals,  half 
tamed  by  military  discipline,  but  with  the 
savage  nature  boiling  out  when  the  rein  was 
slackened.  With  no  common  purpose,  except 
perhaps  some  resolution  that  the  accursed 
scenes  which  they  heard  reported  from  Rome 
should  come  to  an  end,  those  nearest  at  hand 
streamed  down  over  the  passes  of  the  Alps. 
Others  followed.  Town  after  town  was  sacked 
and  given  to  the  flames.  The  Imperial  city, 
the  harlot  of  the  seven  hills,  the  mother  of  in- 
iquities, was  taken  and  retaken  among  the  par- 
tisans of  rival  claimants  for  the  purple.  The 
Capitol  was  burnt,  the  streets  and  gardens  were 
littered  for   weeks   or  months  with  unburied 


362  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

bodies.  Debauched  legionaries  rioted  in  the 
palaces  of  the  nobles  till  indulgence  had 
broken  their  strength,  and  other  wild  band;* 
burst  in  to  tear  the  spoil  from  them.  A  Chris- 
tian, with  a  real  belief,  must  have  seen  in  this 
tremendous  visitation  the  immediate  hand  of 
Providence,  and,  if  he  was  a  person  of  any  im- 
aginative intelligence,  the  description  of  the 
opening  of  the  seals  in  the  vision  of  St.  John 
would  not  seem  an  exaggerated  description  of 
the  history  of  those  fearful  years.  That  vision 
may  have  had  other  meanings.  No  one  can 
say  certainly  to  what  St.  John  refers.  Yet 
metaphor  might  be  piled  on  metaphor,  and 
image  upon  image,  and  all  would  have  been  too 
little  to  have  expressed  the  feelings  likely  to 
have  been  experienced  in  that  deluge  of  fire 
and  blood  by  a  Christian  who  had  escaped  alive 
from  the  torch  festival  of  Nero. 

It  had  been  prophesied  that  salvation  waste 
come  from  the  East.  The  eyes  of  the  Roman 
world  were  turned  with  passionate  longing  to 
Vespasian  and  the  army  of  Syria.  That  Ves- 
pasian had  been  '  marked  as  extraordinary,' 
had  been  proved  by  miracles  which  he  was  re- 
luctantly persuaded  to  attempt  in  Alexandria, 
and  which  he  had  succeeded  in  accomplishing. 
A  blind  man  was  restored  to  sight,  and  a  man 
with  a  disabled  hand  had  recovered  the  use  of  it 
under  circumstances  which  curiously  resemble 
these   of   the  Gospel    miracles.*     His   future 

*  '  E  plebe  Alexandrina  quidam  oculorum  tabe  notus 
genua ejua  advolvitur,remedium  caicitatis  exposccns gcm- 
itu,  monitu  Scrapidis  Dei  qucm  dedita  superstitioncius 
gens  ante  alios  colit;  prccabaturque  principenutgenas  et 
oculorum  orbes  dignarctur  respcrgere  oris  excrcmcnto. 
Alius,  manum  seger,  eodem  Deo  auctore,  ut  pede  ac 
vcstigio  Cacsaris  calcaretur  orabat.  Vespasianus  primo 
irriderc,  aspernari,  atque  illis  instantibus  mode  famam 
vanitatis  mctucre,  modo  obsecratione  ipsorum  et  vocibus 
adulantium  in  spem  induci :  postremo  aetimari  a  mcdicis 

t'ubct  an  talis  ca;citas  ac  debilitas  ope  humana  supera- 
)ilcs  forent.  Medici  varie  dissercre.  Iluic  non  exesam 
vim  luminis,  et  redituram  si  pellerentur  obstantia:  illi 
elapsos  in  pravum  artus  si  salubris  vis  adhibcatur  posse 


DIVUS  CMSAK.  3C-. 

greatness  had  been  foretold  to  him  by  a  pro^ 
phet  on  Mount  Carmel.  He  was  first  saluted 
emperor  by  the  legions  of  Caesarea.  If  Cor- 
nelius the  Centurion,  the  first  Gentile  convert, 
had  not  died  in  the  short  interval  after  St. 
Peter's  visit  to  him,  he,  it  is  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose, was  one  of  the  actors  in  the  revolution, 
Vespasian  was  welcomed  to  the  purple  with  ac- 
clamation, and  a  time  was  found  again  for 
'frighted  peace  to  pant.'  I'he  race  of  the 
CKsars  was  gone,  their  glory  and  their  crimes 
alike  ended,  and  a  more  modest  era  again 
commenced.  The  Fasti,  adulatione  teviponun 
fixdati,  were  purged  of  their  enormous  addi- 
tions. The  Temple  of  Jupiter  Capitolinus  v/as 
rebuilt  with  peculiar  solemnity.  The  impious 
rites  were  abolished,  sacrifices  and  litanies 
were  offered  once  more  to  the  old  accredited 
Gods  and  Goddesses,  and  a  wet  sponge  was 
drawn  over  the  hideous  past.  After  the  Tem- 
ple at  Jerusalem  was  destroyed  by  Titus,  the 
two  million  Jews  who  were  dispersed  over  the 
empire  contributed  the  annual  double  drachma, 
previously  remitted  to  the  High  Priest,  to  the 
sacred  edifices  at  Rome.  Once  more  there 
was  decency  and  order,  and  men  could  live  and 
breathe  with  some  shadow  of  self-respect.  Thus 
were  secured  eighty  more  years  (with  intervals 
of  relapse)  of  peace,  equitable  government, 
and  moderate  manners,  a  renewal  and  prolong- 
ation in  a  weakened  form  of  the  era  of  Augustus  ; 
eighty  years  which  Gibbon  considered  to  have 
been,  on  the  whole,  the  happiest  which  man- 
kind have  ever  experienced. 

But  this  was  all.     The  dead  Gods  could  be 

nitegrari.  Id  fortassc  cordi  Diis,  ct  divino  ministcrio 
principein  electuin.  Denique  patiati  rcmedii  gloriam 
Cjcsarem,  irriti  ludibrium  penes  miseros  fore.  Igitur 
Vespasianus,  cuncta  fortuna  sua;  patera  atus  nee  qui- 
cquam  ultra  incredibile,  la:to  ijjse  vultu,  erectii  qua;  ad- 
stabat  multitudine  jussa  exscquitur.  Statim  conversa 
ad  usuni  manus,  ac  caeco  re  luxit  dies.  Utrumque  qui 
interfuere  nunc  quoque  mem  orant,  postquam  nallum 
mundacio   prctilum.' — Tacit,  ///j/.,  lib.  iv.,  c.  81. 


364  HISTORICAL  ESS  A  YS. 

replaced  in  the  temples.  The  mythology  was 
made  endurable  for  a  time  by  allegoric  inter- 
pretations. But  belief  had  become  impossible 
forever.  And  again  the  question  rose  :  Where 
was  Providence  1  what  signs  could  be  found  of 
a  divine  rule  ?  Not  in  the  emperors.  After 
the  experience  of  Nero,  that  illusion  was  no 
longer  possible.  The  Caesars  themselves  re- 
quired to  be  explained  and  accounted  for  in  a 
universe  presided  over  by  a  moral  power.  The 
distracted  provincials  had  to  be  told  that  a  bad 
emperor  was  a  natural  calamity,  like  tempests 
or  plagues.  They  must  bear  with  him  and 
hope  for  a  change.*  On  thinking  minds, 
therefore,  the  j^roblem  returned,  '  Where  was 
the  promise  of  his  coming  ? '  Why  was  it  well 
with  the  wicked  ?  Why  were  the  good  allowed 
to  suffer  ?  What  was  the  nature  of  the  rule 
under  which  the  universe  was  governed  after 
all  ?  Tacitus  wavered  between  chance  and 
fate.t  The  mocking  spirit  in  Lucian  asks 
Jupiter  if  ever  once  since  he  came  to  the  throne 
he  had  attempted  to  discriminate  between 
good  and  bad,  and  apportion  reward  to  merit, 
and  dares  him  to  mention  one  such  instance. 
Some  there  were,  so  Tacitus  says,  who  tried  to 
believe  that  the  popular  notions  of  good  and 
evil  might  be  mistaken  ;  that  men  might  suffer 
and  yet  be  happy,  be  prosperous  and  yet  be 
miserable.  But  this  was  paradox.  No  real 
conviction    could   be   based  on   obscure   pos- 

*  Thus  Cerealis,  the  prefect  of  Northern  Gaul,  said 
at  Treves,  when  VitcUius  was  emperor:  '  Quomudo 
sterilitatcm  aut  niniios  imbres  et  caetera  natura:  mala, 
ita  luxum  vel  avaritiam  dominantium  tolerate.  Vitia 
erunt,  donee  homines:  sed  neque  haec  continua  et  meli- 
orum  interventu  jjcnsantur.' — Tacit.  Hist.,  lib.  iv.,  c.  74. 

t  'Sed  mihi  ha;c  atque  talia  audienti  in  incerto  judi- 
cium est,  fatone  res  mortalium  et  necessitate  immutabili 
an  forte  volvantur.  Quippe  sapientissimos  vetcrum, 
quiquc  sectam  eorum  a;mulantur,  di versos  reperies,  ac 
multis  insitam  opinionem  non  initia  nostri,  non  finem, 
nondenique  homines  Diis  cunc;  ideo  crcberrime  tristria 
in  bonos,  lajta  apud  detcriores  esse.' — Tac.  Atma/s,  vi., 
22. 


DIVUS  CAESAR.  365 

sibilities;  and  the  great  Roman  world  went 
upon  its  way  back  into  vice,  back  into  madness 
and  atiieism,  till  the  dead  shell  fell  off,  and 
a  living  Christian  Church,  grown  to  imperial 
stature,  was  found  standing  on  the  ruins  of  the 
constitution  of  the  Ccesars. 

Why  was  it  well  with  the  wicked  ?  The  theo- 
logy of  paganism  could  give  no  answer,  for 
the  *  wealth  '  of  paganism  was  the  '  wealth  '  of 
the  modern  Englishman — money  and  broad 
lands  and  health  to  enjoy  them — and  the  most 
pious  disposition  to  believe  could  not  blind  it- 
self to  the  principles  on  which  wealth  of  this 
kind  was  distributed.  Paganism  had  allotted 
as  the  special  dominion  of  the  Gods  the  natural 
forces  which  were  beyond  man's  control.  In 
the  operation  of  these  forces  there  was  no 
trace  of  a  moral  Governor,  and  men  who  re- 
fused to  lie  looked  the  truth  in  the  face  and 
acknowledged  it.  Moral  government,  which 
openly  and  visibly  rewarded  merit  and  pun- 
ished vice  and  crime,  extended  precisely  so  far 
as  the  authority  of  man  extended  and  no  fur- 
ther. The  oracles,  the  legendary  tales,  the 
devout  imaginations  of  what  the  Gods  had 
done  in  the  old  times,  the  prophecies  of  what 
the  Gods  would  do  in  the  future,  these  would 
no  longer  satisfy.  The  facts  of  experience 
were  too  stern  to  be  trifled  with.  The  strug- 
gling conscience  had  demanded  reality,  and 
had  built  temples  to  Divus  Ca;sar.  This,  too, 
had  not  availed.  A  society  constructed  like 
that  of  the  Caesars,  on  the  policeman  and  econ- 
omic laws,  is  a  body  without  life  ;  and  by  an 
everlasting  law  of  nature,  which  men  may  quar- 
rel with,  may  deny  to  exist,  yet  from  which 
they  can  no  more  escape  than  they  can  escape 
from  their  own  dissolution,  such  a  society, 
such  a  kingdom  of  this  world,  will  become  a 
kingdom  of  the  Devil. 

What  was  the  truth,  then  ?  What  was  this 
inexorable  sphinx  which  sat  by  the  highway  of 
humanity,  propounding  its  enigma  and  devour- 


366  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

ing  every  one  who  could  not  divine  the  answer  ? 
In  the  most  despised  of  the  Roman  provinces, 
among  groups  of  peasants  and  fishermen,  on 
the  shores  of  a  Galilean  lake,  the  answer  had 
been  given,  and  there,  in  that  remote  and 
humble  region,  a  new  life  had  begun  for  man- 
kind. They  had  looked  for  a  union  of  God 
with  man.  They  thought  that  they  had  found 
it  in  Cajsar.  Divided  from  Caesar  by  the  whole 
diameter  of  society,  thev  found  it  at  last  in  the 
Carpenter  of  Nazareth.  The  kingdom  of  Caesar 
was  a  kingdom  over  the  world  ;  the  kingdom 
of  Christ  was  a  kingdom  in  the  heart  of  man. 

I  am  a  King,  he  said  (if  it  be  permitted  to 
paraphrase  his  words).  I  bid  you  follow  me 
and  be  my  servants;  but  my  kingdom  is  not 
such  a  kingdom  as  you  look  for.  It  is  the 
kingdom  of  God.  The  Philosophers  of  the 
world  say  there  is  no  kingdom  of  God,  because 
no  justice  can  be  found  in  the  apportionment 
of  good  and  evil.  What  the  world  calls  good 
is  not  the  fit  reward  of  human  virtue.  What 
the  world  calls  evil  is  not  the  punishment 
of  sin.  The  Galileans,  whose  blood  Pilate 
mingled  with  their  sacrifices,  were  not  sinners 
above  other  Galileans.  Suffering,  you  say,  if 
it  is  just,  must  be  a  punishment  of  sin,  and  you 
ask  where  the  sin  lay  when  a  man  was  born 
blind?  Does  this  perj^lex  you.''  Do  you  say 
God  is  indifferent  ?  I  bid  you  find  rather  in 
this  indifference  an  example  for  yourselves  to 
imitate.  Your  Father  in  heaven  makes  his 
rain  to  fall  on  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and  is 
good  to  the  unthankful  and  the  evil.  Be  you 
like  Ilim.  The  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you. 
If  you  would  enter  it,  put  away  your  false 
measure  of  good  and  evil  ;  the  road  into  that 
kingdom  is  through  the  Cross.  I  will  not  make 
you  great.  I  will  not  give  you  honors,  and 
lands,  and  gold  and  jewels.  I  will  promise 
you  no  immunity  from  disease,  or  suffering, 
or  death.  To  these  things  the  Gentiles 
look,    and    when    they    are    not    awarded,    on 


DIVUH  C/KSAR.  3O7 

principles  which  tliey  call  just,  they  doubt  if 
there  is  any  God  in  heaven.  These  are  not 
the  wages  which  you  will  earn  in  my  service. 
Come  to  me  and  I  will  make  you  good  men. 
I  will  make  you  rulers  over  your  own  selfish- 
ness, your  own  appetites  and  lusts.  I  will  set 
you  free  from  sin.  Make  this  your  object,  to 
be  free  from  sin,  to  lead  pure  and  true  and 
honorable  lives.  I  will  then  be  with  you.  I 
will  dwell  in  you.  I  will  give  you  a  peace  of 
mind  of  which  the  world  knows  nothing.  I 
will  be  a  well  of  water  in  you,  springing  up 
into  everlasting  life.  You  wish  for  prosperit}', 
you  wish  for  pleasure,  you  wish  for  the  world's 
good  things.  But  prosperity  will  be  no  help 
to  you  in  the  conquest  of  yourselves.  It  may 
rather  be  a  hindrance.  Sorrow  and  suffering 
are  not  evils.  They  are  the  school  in  which 
you  may  learn  self-command.  The  empire  to 
to  which  I  bid  you  aspire  is  higher  than  the 
Cesar's.  It  is  the  empire  over  your  own  hearts. 
The  reward  I  offer  you  is  greater  than  the 
purple.  It  is  the  redemption  of  your  own 
character.  This  is  the  Providence  of  God,  for 
which  you  looked  and  failed  to  find  it.  And 
it  is  just  to  the  smallest  fibre  of  it.  External 
things  obey  the  laws  assigned  to  them.  The 
moral  Ruler  whom  you  desire  to  know  is  not 
to  be  found  by  looking  at  these.  He  is  here  ; 
he  is  in  the  heart  of  man.  He  is  in  me  who 
now  speak  to  you.  He  will  be  in  you  if  you 
struggle  to  obey  him  and  to  do  his  will.  To 
be  happy  is  not  the  purpose  for  which  you  are 
placed  in  this  world.  Examine  your  own  hearts. 
Ask  your  conscience  and  it  will  answer  you. 
Were  the  choice  offered  you,  whether  you  would 
be  prosperous  and  wacked,  or  whether  your 
life  should  be  a  life  of  prolonged  misfortune, 
and  you  should  rise  out  of  it  purified"  and 
ennobled,  every  one  of  you  knows  the  answer 
which  he  ought  to  give.  Therefore  your  com- 
plaint, that  it  is  well  with  the  wicked,  and  that 
the  good  are  afflicted,  is  confuted  out  of  your 


358  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

own  lips.  You  would  not  change  condition 
with  the  wicked,  however  prosperous  they  may 
seem,  unless  vou  are  yourself  wicked.  To  that 
man  life  has  been  most  kind  whose  character 
it  has  trained  most  nearly  to  perfection. 

Desire  first,  to  be  good  men — true  in  word, 
just  in  action,  pure  in  spirit.  Seek  these,  what- 
ever else  befall  you.  So  you  will  know  God, 
whom  you  have  sought  and  could  not  find.  So 
out  of  men  who  have  life  in  them  shall  grow  a 
society  that  has  life,  and  the  kingdom,  of  the 
world  shall  be  made  in  truth  a  kingdom  of  God, 


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